




















I 


4 




A WALKING GENTLEMAN 






f 


A 

Walking Gentleman 

a iRovel 


BY 

JAMES PRIOR 

AUTHOR OF 

* FOREST folk/ * RIPPLE AND FLOOD,’ * HYSSOP,* 
ETC, 


Solventur ambulando tabulae 


NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 

1908 



Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, 

BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND 
BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. 







• * 

« • 

• « • 




CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I 

OUT OF TUNE 




PAGE 

. I 

II 

THE WHITSUNNING 

. 

. 

. 

17 

III 

THE USUAL TOASTS 


. 

• 

• 25 

IV 

TURN TO THE LEFT 

. 

. 


32 

V 

THE \VEDDING DAY 

. 

• 

• 

. 40 

VI 

TWOPENCE AN HOUR 

. 

. 


50 

VII 

CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 

• 

• 

. 62 

VIII 

GARDEN AND SWORD 

. 

. 


74 

IX 

THE FAMILY DISAGREEMENT 


« 

. 80 

X 

THE WASH-PIT . 

. 



88 

XI 

THE MAGISTRATE 

. 

• 

• 

. 98 

XII 

VALUE RECEIVED 

. 

. 


103 

XIII 

MAN AND BROTHER 

. 


• 

. 118 

XIV 

IN SWEET MUSIC 

. 

. 


128 

XV 

FORCE OF HABIT 

. 

• 

• 

• 133 

XVI 

UNDER DISTINGUISHED 

PATRONAGE 


141 

XVII 

HER LADYSHIP 

. 


• 

. 150 

XVIII 

HO ! 

. 

. 


157 

XIX 

THE SHADOW 

. 


• 

. 171 

XX 

UNDERGROUND FIRE 

. 

. 


. 180 

XXI 

FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 

. 

• 

• 

. 189 

XXII 

THE FODDER-ROOM 

. 

. 


. 200 

XXIII 

MUTTON BROTH 

. 

. 

. 

210 

XXIV 

RECOVERY 

. 

. 

. 

. 217 

XXV 

THE ADMIRAL AND OTHERS 

, 

. 

. 223 

XXVI 

GOLDEN BALLS . 

, 

, 

, 

232 


V 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

XXVII 

SOLE EXECUTRIX 



, 

PAGE 

. 244 

XXVIII 

IN THE PARK 


. 

. 

256 

XXIX 

ORGANIZED CHARITY 

• 

. 

. 

. 264 

XXX 

A DEAR half-crown’s 

WORTH 

. 

272 

XXXI 

THE AWAKENING 

. 

. 

. 

280 

XXXII 

THE WEDDING MARCH 


. 

- 

293 

XXXIII 

clockin’-time 

• 

. 

. 

• 304 

XXXIV 

THE DAY-MAN 


, 

. 

315 

XXXV 

THE CHALLENGE . 

. 

. 

. 

• 323 

XXXVI 

AT A VENTURE 




330 

XXXVII 

ON DIT . 


. 

. 

• 336 

XXXVIII 

FOG AND PHOEBUS 


. 

. 

346 

XXXIX 

THE FAR-NIGH CLOSE 

. 

. 

. . 

■ 355 

XL 

UNDER THE ROSE 


. 

• 

361 

XLI 

AT LAST . 

. 

• 

. 

• 370 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


CHAPTER I 

OUT OF TUNE 

‘‘ The Duke of Highlow has sent us a cheque, Jack.” 

” H’m, his delicate way of presenting you with his 
autograph, I suppose. He knows you collect?” 

” Won’t you come and look at the presents that came 
in yesterday?” 

” Please excuse me, Sally. I know I shall have to see 
them some day.” 

” No compulsion. Jack.” 

Lord Beiley was too polite to contradict, but it was 
depressingly apparent to him that a man who has allowed 
himself to drift within twenty-eight hours of wedlock 
is not a free agent. 

” What’s the matter. Jack? You seem very down.” 

” Unusually so?” 

” Awfully unusually.” 

“Then I was mistaken; I thought I was just on a 
dead level with everything else.” 

“Thanks for everything else.” 

“ If you’ll excuse me. I’ll take a stroll through the 
park until luncheon.” 

Lord Beiley turned from Lady Sarah Sallis, and passed 
from the tempered light of that great hall through the 
open door and out into the broad sunshine, with as 
despondent an unexpectancy as though he had been pro- 
ceeding from one prison to another. Down the wide 

I 


2 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


balustraded steps he went with the even unelastic tread of 
unutterable boredom. A few slow paces across gravel 
and the shade of a great avenue of lime-trees came between 
him and the sun. Yet with a noble generosity they 
returned part of the light they took in broad shimmer- 
ings, delicate siftings, quivering flashes, that made the 
blades of the grass he trod seem things as airy as their 
own leaves that hung between him and the sky. If 
he had but seen. 

It was Whit-Monday and the first day of June, when 
according to the almanac and proverbial wisdom all 
things are in tune. At least the songs of the birds 
were; the merry untiring roundelay of the chaffinch, 
the silvery tinkle or slender piping of the tits, the full- 
throated repetitions of the thrush, the poetic ecstacy 
of the lark, the far-off uncompetitive fluting of the 
blackbird. On either hand stretched the great undulat- 
ing park, browsed by herds of deer, red and fallow. 
The sky visible but brokenly adown the mile-long avenue 
was in flawless gradation, from the robbed blue of the 
sun’s proximity to the hazeless violet of the horizon. 
But to Lord Beiley, if he heard and if he saw, the sky 
was of one colour with the clod, the songs of the birds 
to one tune with his own sombre ponderings. 

On the morrow he was to marry his old friend Lady 
Sarah Sallis, only child of the Earl of Hexgrove, the 
woman whom he liked best. He was not in debt, his 
liver was all right, he had never done a mean thing, 
he was not bitten by ambition, not depressed by ob- 
scurity; his vices were as inconspicuous as his virtues; 
he had neither done nor undone, neither failed nor 
attempted. And yet — and yet — if he could quietly have 
ceased to be, that moment, without the doctor, without 
newspaper impertinences or posthumous fuss, he would 
have welcomed the lapse even into nonentity as scarcely 
more arid and not so sorry as such an existence. And 
Lady Sally? Well, he had made his will so far as he 
could in her favour. And what more would she have? 

He kept on walking, chiefly because to him who 


OUT OF TUNE 


3 


stands thought comes with the more persistent attack. 
As one moves even in the solitude of a great avenue 
there is at least the crackle of a leaf or dry twig under- 
foot to claim the ear; or there is a mole-hill in the way, 
some little inequality that catches the toe and makes a 
momentary interruption of the brain’s dull sequences; 
which in Lord Beiley’s case would have been sad had 
they not been so altogether commonplace, passionless 
and selfish. 

He passed under the great arch of the gateway and 
out into the public road. On the rising ground before 
him widely spread the new red houses, the spires and 
tall smoking chimneys of the great manufacturing town. 
He might have seen them before, at large from the 
terrace, by glimpses through the trees, but he did not; 
now he could only avoid the sight entirely by turning 
his back upon it, as he did. He walked in the opposite 
direction, sauntered, lounged, crawled; it is hard to 
hit upon a word vacuous enough to express the slow 
futility of his motions. The caterpillar crawls, but with 
an imperative purpose; the exquisite lounges, but with 
much self-enjoyment; lovers saunter, but to make the 
most of the sunshine. Merely to say that he went 
would be colourless enough but too businesslike. Well 
then, he crept — though even crept has a furtive super- 
fluous colour of its own — crept under the park wall. A 
factory chimney peering over the brow of the hill, a 
villa staring redly spick-and-span from among trees of 
much older growth, might have proved to him that by 
turning his back on the town he had not quite done 
with it; but he was sensible of nothing outward but 
the annoyance of the heat and dust. 

Nevertheless there was somewhere, somehow, some- 
why, a cessation of that monotonous dead-alive alter- 
nation of left foot and right; for when he came out of 
himself he found that he had stopped, that he was look- 
ing at something, that he was being looked at. On 
the dusty road just in front of him was a brake full of 
people, a shabby dusty vehicle, horsed by four un- 


4 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


matched screws, packed with dusty perspiring men 
and women, all evidently interested in themselves, their 
surroundings and him. Their easy laughter, the con- 
tent that buttered their faces as with a sweat, their 
enjoyment of the dust and other inconveniences, their 
acceptance of noise for music and good-will for wit, 
were doubtless enviable, but the half-awakened indis- 
criminate supercilious gaze which he gave them back 
was too unshaped to deserve so definite an epithet as 
that of envy. Nevertheless it was evidently supposed 
by their good-natured self-satisfaction to be indicative 
of a longing to be of the party. 

“ An’ why not, matey?” shouted one of them. 

It was taken up by a chorus of treble, tenor and bass. 

“ Coom wee’s an’ welcome.” 

” Mek a bit o’ room o’ your side.” 

‘‘ Five an’ six, includin’ meat tea an’ speechifyin’.” 

” Hutch up a bit furder, missis.” 

‘‘ Now, mester, if yo’re coomin’.” 

“Shew yersen limber. Gie’s yer ’and. Toomp in.” 

“ Hooray !” 

“ Now, Sam Meldrum, whip up them theer thorough- 
bred cattle o’ yourn to their three mile a hour gallop.” 

Before he had balanced a “ would ” against a “ would 
not,” he had walked the half-dozen paces to the middle 
of the road, had put foot to the step, had been seized 
above either elbow by an ill-washed vigorous hand, 
had been lifted rather than helped into the brake, and 
with much squeezing, swearing, laughing and loud 
welcoming, in a mixture of the Nottinghamshire and 
Derbyshire dialects, had been forced into their midst 
and wedged tightly between a fat man and a fat woman. 

“ Thou’s gotten a divorce, George, from t’ oad woman 
at last,” said a dark-haired sturdy rough-coated miner- 
like young fellow. 

“ Nay,” said the woman, “ it’s me as has gotten the 
divorce; an’ a jolly good riddance an’ all.” 

“Nay, Harry, lad,” said another, a little dumpling 
of a man, after he had measured with his merry eyes 


OUT OF TUNE 


5 


Lord Beiley’s slenderness of girth; “ nay, i’ my opinion 
the present difference atween George an’ Liz is ’ardly 
enough for a divorce; call it a mewchal separation for 
the good o’ the neebours.” 

Again they laughed, bass and a shrill squeal of treble. 

“What price that red glass ring, matey?” said the 
young miner. “ I shouldna mind haein’ one like it 
mysen.” 

“ I don’t exactly remember,” said Beiley. 

“ It ’ud besummat if thou could tell me to fifty pound.” 

“ I couldn’t.” 

They laughed again, and would have laughed more, 
but were just passing the hall lodge. The brake was 
stopped; each had to twist head and stretch neck, or 
stand and crane forwards in order to catch an uncertain 
glimpse of the park. 

“ It’s a main big place,” said a gaunt grey-haired 
dull-eyed .six-footer; “it reminds me wonnerfully o’ 
that’n wheer I were born.” 

“That must a bin the workus then, Stiff’un,” said 
a stripling in black coat and hat, white flannel trousers 
and cricket belt. 

“Ay, Peter,” said Stiff’un, “it were; I’m not 
baugein’ an’ boastin’ as if ’twere the county lunatic 
’sylum.” 

Which, as the shouts of laughter testified, was con- 
sidered a smart retort upon Peter. 

As they got astart again a voice from the box bade 
them ask the counter-jumper if he knew who lived there. 
His lordship, gathering from a general chorus of person- 
alities that he was meant by the counter-jumper, replied 
that it was one of the Earl of Hexgrove’s places. 

“Ah, yo’re in wee’m, I see,” said the dumpling of 
a man ; they called him Poley. 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“Thick wee’m,” said one. 

“ A pal o’ yourn,” said another. 

“Sort o’ know ’im intimate like,” finally said fat 
George at his elbow wheezily. 


6 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


I don’t know anybody intimately; do you?” said 
Beiley. 

“ Rayther,” answered George. ‘‘My missis t’other 
side on yer for example. Eh, Liz> don’t I know yer ? 
Ay, yo huzzy, that I do.” 

“An’ I know yo, George; better nor well enough. 
I knowed yer well enough afore iver I’d spoke to yer.“ 

“ Ay, an’ I know yer nagging oad mother an’ all.” 

“ Ay, an’ I know yer scabby oad fayther an’ all. I 
know ’im well; well I know ’im.” 

“ An’ yer brother Jos, the swine.” 

“ An’ yer sister Betty. If Jim’s a swine she’s a 
besom. I’ve hed my ears open if I’ve kep my mouth 
shut.” 

“ Yo’re a fow-mouthed troll to say so.” 

“ Yo’re a black-’earted varmin to miscall our Jos.” 

Lord Beiley had grown uneasy at being as it were 
the conductor of their violent recriminations. 

“ Hadn’t a broader gentleman better take my place?” 
he said. 

Laughter broke up the quarrel. 

“ Coom, Liz, coom, George; this een’t whissunning, 
this een’t. Sattle it ower a can at the next pub an’ save 
yer breath for the Sheffield ’andicap.” 

The next public-house was close at hand on the out- 
skirts of the town, and there they stopped. There was 
another brake ahead of that in which Beiley was seated, 
besides some half-dozen bicyclists. They all had glasses 
round amid the lively artillery of gibe and laughter from 
vehicle to vehicle, crossed by the raking comment of 
cyclist and bystander on the pavement. Beiley had no 
liking for beer, but he took his glass with the others. 
He wished Lord Hexgrove had been driving by to see 
him ; he, a man who had hitherto kept a perfect fastidi- 
ousness, the special virtue of his class. He felt a 
perverse pleasure in doing what offended his own sense 
of decency. 

When all was drunk but much still unsaid, again 
they got astart, with whooping and shouting, and the 


OUT OF TUNE 


7 


mingledy-pingledy music to any tune and no tune of 
a bugle, an accordion, a mouth-organ and a penny trum- 
pet, supported by the singing of those who thought 
they could sing, and the shrill whistling of those who 
did not care to try. There was rising ground in front 
of them, but swerving to the right they skirted on the 
flat a manufacturing suburb, a residential quarter and 
an old castle-rock; then followed a crooked irregular 
cross-way and soon found themselves in the dingy thick 
of the town. 

It was a small and shapeless open space formed by 
the meeting of several busy unattractive streets and 
alleys, and decorated on the one hand by a row of 
almshouses, on the other by two inns. They stopped 
at the latter and again loudly called for their half-pints 
and half-quarterns. Lord Beiley with the others; ap- 
parently he was suffering from thirst sympathetic. 
There was soon a crowd around them, by equal parts 
admiring and amused. Harry, the hot-headed young 
miner, from chaffing got to wrangling with the by- 
standers, and was particularly personal to a tall thin 
moustachioed man in his shirt-sleeves. 

‘‘Hark to me, stockinger,^’ he shouted; “in our 
place the women use sich uns as thee to tie round their 
parcels o’ calicker. They wouldna call thee a mon ; 
they’d call thee a ha’porth o’ twine.’’ 

The thin man took his pipe from his mouth and 
said : 

“ I see, surry; yo’re — 

‘ Derbysheer bred ; 

Strong i’ th’ arm an’ weak i’ th’ head.’” 

The young miner uprose. 

“ I’m agooin’,’’ he said, “to try my head again thy 
arm.” 

He was thrust back into his seat by the violent per- 
suasion of half-a-dozen rough hands. 

“ Fie on thee, Harry,” said Liz. “ Is them yer 
manners ? Coom ! What’ll the stockingers think to ’s ?’’ 


8 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


Harry, convinced by the rough hands and the reason, 
immediately turned right-about-face to the extreme of 
good fellowship. He held forth his can to his antagonist 
on the pavement. 

‘‘ Here, surry !*’ he said. “ Ne’er mind what uz says; 
we’re whissunnin’. Teem some o’ this down into thy 
belly an’ swell it out. A barrel on’t ud mek a hafe- 
mon on thee.” 

The stockinger put forth his hand and drank with 
this sentiment : 

” Here’s luck to thee, lad; and if theer’s anybody i’ 
th’ fam’ly with a saving o’ sense, may ’e die an’ leave 
it to thee.” 

The laugh was so general that Harry joined in with- 
out closely weighing the occasion of it. Nothing would 
serve him now but to blunder down the brake steps and 
with fervid vows of friendship shake hands one by one 
with the whole mob of laughing spectators. Then off 
they drove again amid a chorus of farewells, jovial, sar- 
castic, envious, amused. If one of Lord Beiley’s friends 
could have beheld him thus his satisfaction would have 
been complete ; he would have delighted in the cursory 
supercilious glance, the arrested eye, the sudden recog- 
nition, the irrepressible amazement. With the leisurely 
choice of an epicure he ran through the various names 
of kinsfolk and others whom he would have liked to 
encounter thus; haughty dowagers, flawless mashers, 
pompous legislators, belles of the ball-room, he ran 
through them all. Except Lady Sally; his thoughts 
kept away from her. 

Boys and girls followed them shrieking and laughing, 
and shouting ” Chuck uz a penny, mesters, chuck uz 
a penny!” Pence and ha’pence rattled on the stones, 
and the children scrambled for them, head over heels. 
Lord Beiley tossed them a handful of shillings and half- 
crowns. Helter-skelter flew the children ; the brakes 
screamed with laughter; the miner gave the lord a 
disconcerting thump of approval between his shoulder- 
blades. 


OUT OF TUNE 


9 


‘‘Well done, counter-joomper he yelled; “ thou’s 
more droonker nor what thou seems.” 

“Thank you,” said Lord Beiley, with a somewhat 
gaspy nonchalance; “but kindly favour another back 
with your next compliment.” 

Everybody laughed. 

It was now the unanimous vote of the company that 
he was incomparably the drunkest of them all ; but 
their admiration was genial. Over the uneven granite 
the ill-compacted vehicles bumped along. All smoked 
except the women and a little wizened barber who took 
snuff, and the rankness of the fumes filled the air. 
Beiley, whether in emulation or self-defence, lighted 
a cigar. The midday heat was doubled by the close 
contact of perspiring body to body. The cats’ music 
of instrument and voice was going on all the while. 
Liz squealed into his one ear how hot she was, and 
that she’d a husband’s sister’s husband at Nottingham 
in the tuffey trade; George bawled into his other, en- 
larging incoherently upon his contempt for British 
generalship and his liking for pickled cabbage. 

But at length they began to leave the stony town; 
the wheels merely rumbled a ground-bass to the uproar 
of the voices. On the one hand the flowery meadows 
were ripening into hay, on the other a tree-clad steep 
rejoiced to have once more escaped out of the death 
of winter; though marred, both fields and cliff, by a 
double pair of rails. The jovial company was loudly, 
even coarsely amused by two of the bicyclists ; a woman 
enormously fat, with a face in a purple agony, always 
a long way behind, and a stolid heavily-built man of 
about forty, a collier with an imperfectly washed face, 
who rode for the first time. Every now and then he fell 
off, ran into wall, hedge or ditch, collided with a foot- 
passenger or fellow-cyclist. Amid boisterous jeers he 
immediately regained his feet; his dust-laden clothes 
bore an addition of dust; he made neither complaint 
nor apology, had neither smile nor frown on his grimy 
face; if anything, looked cooler than everybody else. 


lo A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

He remounted with the assistance of a laughing com- 
rade, made a wobbling start, and presently after a 
devious run of uncertain length again came to grief. 
One speech he made at his fifteenth fall ; both before 
and after which his mouth remained closed, a natural 
closure with no sign of constraint. 

“ OVve peed ma money,” he said, ‘‘ for a whull dee; 
and for a whull dee oi mane to roide ’er. To-morrer 
onybody may hae ’er as loikes, for may. OiM sooner 
w^ork unnerground for noat an* foind mysen.*’ 

They stopped to drink at Lowfields, a mushroom of 
a glace sprung up round a railway junction. Here in 
consideration of three half-dollars and a half-pint the 
accordion passed into the possession of Peter, who spent 
the remainder of the journey in laboriously extracting 
discord from it. On either hand and in front of him 
sat as assessors a self-elected committee of inexperts, 
who seemed to think that a musical instrument is a 
sort of conundrum whose meaning is to be arrived at 
by a persistence in wild guess-work. They unneces- 
sarily encouraged him w^hen he was over sanguine, and 
fed his despair when he talked of chucking the fool of a 
thing into the hedge-bottom. 

They stopped again, so hot was the day, a mile 
further on at Bardwell. It was their humour at these 
and other stoppages so to abridge their thirst, that they 
were ready to start again just as the fat lagging female 
bicyclist trundled up, panting and sweating. But they 
would not have gone above a furlong or two before some 
good-natured fellow or other would be sure to shout to 
the driver to pull up, w^ould take out a flask and say : 

” Here, oad gell ! It worn’t ’ardly jonnock;^ no, it 
worn*t. Here, drink a sup o* this. I lay yo’ve lost a 
stun an’ a hafe sin last we seed yer. Afore we get to 
Welham yo’ll be as thin as a lat.”^ 

And so they waited while she sipped and recovered 
breath, bantering her the while in terms that were more 
humorous than refined. In a momentary silence they 
^ Fair. 2 Lath. 


OUT OF TUNE 


II 


could hear a lark sing overhead, lost in the sunshine; 
below a ploughman called to his fellow in the next field. 
Beyond the range of their tobacco the air was filled with 
the fragrance of the hawthorn. 

Still they drove down the river valley through 
Crifton and Clayton, with due stoppages of course. 
All the way they had on their left hand a line of dumpy 
hillocks often covered with wood; on their right level 
tree-besprinkled fields, fat meadows wherein sometimes 
the green predominated, sometimes the gold of the 
buttercup or the snow of the cow-parsley. And the 
foliage of the hedges hardly appeared for the abundance 
of bloom. The barber said : 

“ It looks like as if th' hedges was all hung ower wi’ 
women’s smocks an’ children’s pinnies.” 

They stayed the brakes for a while on the further side 
of Clayton, where a number both of the men and 
women got out to gather bunches of May, of herb 
Robert, lambs’-toes and red campions, laughing and 
playing together like children let loose. Beiley, who 
had remained sitting, said to the red-faced puffy 
butcher opposite to him ; 

“ By the bye, where are we going?” 

” To Welham,” was the answer. ” Do yer know it 
at all?” 

“No.” 

“ A nyst place. There’s a cathedrial, a work’us an’ 
a haf e-dozen good housen.” 

“ Houses? Oh! half-a-dozen rests for the horses?” 

“ Yer needn’t want to get no nigher.” 

“ Them boys at the cathedal sings a treat,” said the 
barber. 

“I’m partial to a bit o’ good music after a good 
blow-out,” said George; “ it seems to top it up, like.” 

“ I’ve noat to say agen good music,” said the 
butcher; “ I’ve three darters as larns the pianner; but 
to my fancy, when y’ave put away as much as yer can 
eat an’ drink, there’s noat does yer so much good as a 
pipe o’ bacca,” 


12 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


The blossom-gatherers got in again and wedged 
themselves into their respective places. Liz seated her- 
self partly upon Lord Beiley’s knee, accidentally of 
course. When they were fairly astart the young miner 
noisily called attention to it. 

“George! look, mon ! Wheer’s thy oys? Shay’s 
huggling the counter-joomper. Get angry, mon. Pull 
thy shirt out. Show’s thy bad manners. Uz o’ this 
side’s aw of a bloosh to see’t. Look at Bootcher Gil- 
pin’s face. Cut ’is throat, thou sluggard, an’ smack 
her i’ th’ chaps.” 

“ Ler ’em be, George,” said Stiff’un, “don’t be 
hoggish. Theer’s enough meat on Liz to content yo 
an’ ’im an’ all, let yer appetites be what they wdll.” 

“ Yo mun get a divorce on ’er to-morrer, George,” 
said Poley, “ an’ marry the widder. She’ll hae yer. I’ll 
be bound.” 

“ No, she wain’t, Poley,” said the widow, a blowzy 
forty-year-old, always laughing. “ When she wants 
to marry again theer’s a better man nor George a- 
coortin’ on ’er.” 

“ Who is ’t. Peg?” said Peter; and “ Is ’t me. Peg?” 
said Harry and half-a-dozen others, while Peg laughed 
and laughed again. 

Not a man nor a woman but had a branch of May 
in the hand or a sprig of May in the hat or cap, and 
for a little while the natural fragrance had the better of 
the tobacco smoke; for a little while by a caprice of 
humour the horse-play and laughter ceased, even Peter 
let his accordion be, and a certain seriousness settled 
on their faces. They ran through Bradeley, where the 
laburnums at the mill hung their blossoms down to the 
water, where every garden was a-bloom with flowers, 
and the road was thickly hedged on either hand with elm 
and chestnut and new-leaved ash, making delicious shade. 

“ Reelly, I could live in sich a place all my days,” 
said the widow, her laugh refined to a chuckle. 

“ An’ be buried by yonner chutch down among them 
green trees,” said Poley with a half sigh. 


OUT OF TUNE 


13 

“ It smells different here to what it does unnerground, 
Davy,” said Harry. 

And a deep voice from a mouth out of sight answered, 
“ It does that, lad.” 

“The fields is just like a pixcher wi' posies,” said a 
little old straight-backed grey-haired woman, named 
Fan. 

“ I think I like to be in a hay-field among the sweet 
’ay better nor oat,” said Liz. 

“ But it een’t alius ’ay-mekkin’ even here, lass,” said 
the six-footer. 

“ Just hark at that bird !” said Peter. 

“ What bird is’t, I wunner?” said the barber. 

A little bird that from the top of a tall elm soared 
into the air, then descended to its perch on outspread 
wfings, singing all the time with an ecstasy of joy that 
disdained the changes of art ; and hardly had it alighted 
but it soared again and sang again. One thought it 
was sky-lark, another thought it must be a ground-lark, 
another had never heard the like on’t afore; and they 
stopped the rumble of their wheels for a few minutes 
under a spreading oak-tree that they might listen the 
better. 

“What is’t, Paley’s Frank?” said George. 

But Paley’s Frank was listening and did not 
answer. 

“ It’s beautiful !” said the widow out of a full heart, 
meaning not the song alone but the setting of it, the 
lush green and especially the unfathomable blue. 

They drove on again, still commending the beauty 
of their surroundings till Fan said casually, for the 
sake of a change : 

“ ’Ow ’ot yer do look, Liz ! It ud melt taller just to 
look at yer.” 

Everybody gave a gasp all at once, and the heat 
which had hitherto been their amusement was felt to 
be unbearable. 

“ I don’t look no more ’otter nor nubbudy else,” said 
Liz, panting and resenting; “for I couldn’t.” 


14 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ Put yer ’and to my back,” said the widow; “ it fair 
burns; it ud toast bread.” 

“Pm ommost sweltered,” said George. 

“Sweltered?” said Peter, “that’s not in it; I’m 
roast beef an’ mustard.” 

“ If thou’d said roast pig, Peter,” said Harry, 
“ thou’d a bin nearer t’ mark.” 

“Nay,” said Stiff’un, “there een’t enough sward ^ 
on ’im for pig; I reckon Peter ud eat more liker a 
summat too oad for cawf an’ not oad enough for cow.” 

The new swerve of the conversation opportunely 
brought them to the Flying Horse at Monckton, 
their next halting-place, where their speech was freer, 
their laughter louder, their thirst more fiery than ever. 
Again they started, again the poor panting she-bicyclist 
w^as left behind amid a chorus of friendly gibes. But 
then their course left the level road of the river valley, 
and began to traverse the low but steep hills which 
for so many miles had bounded their view to the north. 
The steaming horses found the gradient too severe for 
them ; all the men had to get out and walk in order to 
ease them. The widow took full breaths and fanned 
herself with a not quite white handkerchief. 

“ I wish to anything yo men ud stop out,” she said, 
“ now y’are out; there’d be some comfort.” 

“ Yer’d scon be out after uz, Peg,” said Poley. 

“ Not i’ this life, Poley, not i’ this life.” 

“Then, b’ leddy, it’ll be sudden death. Peg,” said 
Stiff’un; “there’ll be no time nayther for a drench o’ 
watter nor a sniff o’ salts. So I’ll say good-bye now. 
Peg, whilst there’s time.” 

Solemnly he shook hands with her. The other men 
crowded round and did the same; some slapped her 
broad back, others pulled her head down to their lips 
and kissed her, she laughing all the while. 

“ Yo nummies,” said Fan, “all Peg means by 
change o’ life is married Pfe. She’ll non die whilst she 
can mug an’ marry.” 


* Rind. 


OUT OF TUNE 


15 


“Wish yer many ’appy returns, Peg,” said Poley. 

“ Criky, lad,” said Stiff’un, “there’s plenty on’s 
alive yet to sarve Peg’s turn wi’out any re-turns. Them 
as her an’ the doctor’s put out ’n their misery, leave 
’em i’ peace.” 

“ If I’ve nivver done nubbudy no more ’arm. Bill,” 
said the widow, “ nor what I’ve done yo, I’m a guiltless 
woman.” 

“ I say noat again that, but I’m afeard o’ th’ future.” 

“ Yo nedn’t to be.” 

“ M’appen not; but I’m like a woman an’ a cow; 
she knows it’s a cow but she’s afeard it’s a bull.” 

A second time the men had to alight. The young- 
sters began running against one another uphill, stopped 
half-way and threw themselves down on the banks, 
panting. The little barber was explaining to Lord 
Beiley that their outing had been promoted by the 
Watford Preservative Club, of which a good few of 
them were members. 

“This isn’t our grand yearly do,” he said; “that’s 
in August; it’ll be summat like. Sir Thomas Saywell, 
M.P.’s promised to be present.” 

“So we’re sure,” said Harry, “ ayther o’ him or a 
letter o’ ’pology.” 

“ But as we gen’rally reckons to bring wer own 
appetites,” said Poley, “that don’t so much matter.” 

“ But of what,” asked his lordship, “ is your club 
preservative? Apricots and ” 

“ Dear ’eart, no,” said the barber quite hastily; “ it’s 
the priv’leges of the people we’re banded to presarve.” 

“ Th’ ’ouse of lords,” said Stuff ’un, “ the game laws, 
the dug tax, sickness an’ poverty, an’ all our other oad 
ancient charters.” 

“Why should you? Are you all members of the 
peerage and game preservers?” 

“ Not by no means.” 

“But one on’s,” said Poley, “is a game poacher. 
Wheer is ’e? Wheer’s Paley’s Frank?” 

A unanimous pointing of nose or finger indicated a 


i6 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

little middle-aged man in a black coat, the quietest of 
the whole party, and next to the barber of the meanest 
presence. The only token that he heard was a further 
rounding of his shoulders as he trudged uphill, hands 
buried in pockets. 

“ Oi belave hay started t’oad cloob hissen, the cunning 
toad,’’ said Harry. 

“ That ’e did,” said the six-footer; “ ’e reckoned up 
as if the game laws was repaled there’d be no more 
taste like about snarin’ a hare anights nor limin’ 
sparrers adays. Didn’t yer, Frank?” 

But Paley’s Frank neither looked nor said. 

“About what’s the time o’ day by your tunnip, 
counter-joomper ?” said Peter. 

Beiley looked at his watch and forgot to answer. It 
was past the time at which he had promised to meet 
Lady Sally at luncheon. He fell into a muse which 
lasted until they reached Welham. The first thing he 
did there was to telegraph an apology to Lady Hex- 
grove. His way of putting it — that he had been “un- 
expectedly called away” — was perhaps as near to the 
truth as in telegraphic civility he could have gone. 


CHAPTER II 


THE WHITSUNNING 

It was then three hours to the time appointed for 
the ^‘meat-tea,” so after some slight bread-and-cheese- 
and-sandwich refreshment at the inn where they put 
up, the merrymakers divided to spend the interval ac- 
cording to individual choice. A good few of the unin- 
ventive or sedentary simply stayed where they were, 
and continued in more purposeful fashion the inter- 
mittent potations of the morning. Two or three of a 
literary turn, men and women, loitered about the pre- 
cincts of the minster and desultorily deciphered in- 
scriptions on the tombstones ; while the obscure rumour 
from within of the chanting of many voices or the 
drawling of one made them feel as though they had 
encountered a half-day Sunday in the week. Some 
of the women, notorious shoppers, with one or two 
of the gentler of the other sex, walked the hot stones, 
discussed the prices in the draper’s window, said they 
should die if they lived in such a quiet place, bought 
chocolate and munched it, and all the while kept ask- 
ing the men with watches what o’clock it was. Three 
or four of the inexperts borrowed the accordion from 
Peter, who was heartily tired of it, and favoured the 
street with new renderings of old favourites, wherein 
“Abide with me” got inextricably involved with 
“ Rule Britannia ” and “ Oh, Flo, why do you go?” 

Two newly married couples and as many pairs of 
sweethearts stole away; the others went into a grass 
field two or three minutes’ walk from the inn, where 
the younger of the women and those who were attracted 
2 17 


i8 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


by them played at “bum-ball/* a game in which the 
shouting and laughing predominated over the leg- 
exercise. The rest of the men, those who were not sus- 
ceptible to feminine influence or who had as much as 
they liked of it at home, chose to play at cricket; but 
there was at first some difficulty in picking sides. Poley 
proposed a match between “ the dotty and the all-there,’* 
but Stiff’un objected to its one-sidedness. 

“ *Twould be a match of me an* nubbudy agen ev’ry- 
body else. Why not th* hen-pecked uns versus the 
residium ?’* 

But all the married men save one oft-convicted wife- 
beater voted against him. The rash young miner said, 
“ Let th* *onest men plee the thaves,** but was straight- 
way suppressed by a general shout of indignation. 
Quoth Poley ambiguously : 

‘‘ For we*re all one sort.** 

The barber suggested ‘‘Tradesmen v. Non-trades- 
men,** but was snuffed out by the most important 
person among them, a prosperous general dealer, a 
stout person huskily fluent, in a black coat and a white 
waistcoat, which showed a good deal of a rather 
crumpled shirt-front. 

“Let’s *ave no class distinctions,** he said, “but 
what’s in accordance with the laws and the statutes of 
the land. We’re all either kings or lords or commons. 
Isn’t that so? The law makes no distinction betwixt 
tinker and tailor as I know to. Isn’t that so? Very 
well then, let’s keep inside of the constitution of the 
country.** 

Harry again desperately proposed “ Red noses agen 
white uns,*’ but there was such a preponderance just 
then of the red as gave no hope of a fair match. A 
burly phlegmatic fish-hawker, who had hitherto hardly 
spoken a word, chose to see in the proposal a personal 
insult. 

“Yer might as well say at once ‘ D-droonk agen 
sober.* I know when I’ve hed anough. I wish I 
c-could joodge mack’rel as well. Another pint an* I 


THE WHITSUNNING 


19 


shall a hed anough. Or a pint an’ a hafe. Is that 
spoke clear? I don’t reckon a hafe p-pint oat to a 
man wee a top to ’is ’ead. I’m joost the medum atween 
a watter-butt an’ a swine. Is that plain sense? I ain’t 
the man to brangle; I ain’t the man to do noat wrong; 
I’m a good man. If a man dunno when ’e’s ’ed anough, 
let ’im c-call for another glass. If yer keep a mack’rel 
while next Monday it’ll stink like a t-teetotaler. Who’s 
the fool now? The Bible says ‘ Wine’s a mocker;’ it 
don’t say noat agen beer; it couldn’t, truthful. What 
is there nyster for a relish nor a pennorth o’ srimps? 
I’m fowerty-fower the lift’ o’ next month. I’ve never 
hed a tooth drored. I’ve never false-swore agen nub’dy. 
I’m own cousin to Mester Smith of wer mothers’ sides. 
Now ril goo, to save t-time, an’ hae that t’other pint 
an’ a hafe — or two pints.” 

He went, but not far; he fell over a form that stood 
across his way and did not rise again, but lay all his 
length unregarded, his feet in the shade of a wide 
walnut-tree and his bare head in the sun. The 
cricketers had at last come to an agreement. Harry, 
with the advantage of the first pick, was choosing sides 
against a professional cricketer with lathy limbs and 
glaring eyes set in a wooden face painted red, whose 
surname or nickname was Shortly. Lord Beiley and 
the barber were wanted to complete the sides, but both 
wished to be left out. Said Harry the miner violently : 

‘‘Yo’ll ayther plee or way’ll plant yer i’ th’ grund, 
both on yer, for t’ wickets, wi’ yer heads on for bails.” 

‘T’d sooner play than give you so much trouble,” 
said Beiley. 

“I’ll hae counter-joomper,” said Harry; “I reckon 
hay’s thray cans i’ better fettle nor the barber.” 

The two men who professed to know nothing about 
cricket were compelled to be umpires. The pitch was 
a bit of ordinary grass-land kept short by the sheep. 
Harry’s side went in first and fared ill. The profes- 
sional’s disconcerting alternations of swift and slow 
fetched the batsmen out like shelling peas, with a little 


20 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


assistance from the umpires who were completely under 
the spell of his glaring eyes woodenly set. Until Harry 
himself went in fifth wicket down and with some wild 
terrific slogging — 5, 3, 4, 7 (including 3 for lost ball), 
4, 6 (all run) — quickly raised the score, while four 
successive partners at the other end in cricket-reporters’ 
slang “ compiled ” three between them, including a leg- 
bye for two off the batter’s head. The single was got 
in the slips by Peter, who presented the wrong side of 
his bat to the bowler, and next ball was out, caught by 
short leg off his hip. 

The counter-jumper was sent in last amid much 
anticipatory merriment. His face was so white, his 
hands so delicate, his bearing so languid, that every- 
body was prepared for a girlish performance. He found 
that the ball got up nastily. Off the first three deliveries 
he had a life at the hands of the wicket-keeper, point 
and mid-on. Everybody laughed save the professional; 
he glared all round, but especially at the umpires; 
which so unnerved and confounded them that the one 
at the bowler’s end shouted ‘‘No ball!” to the next 
just before it shot down the middle stump. Shortly 
wrangled, but Harry wrangled back wfith every variety 
of argument, from insult to his opponent’s brick-dust 
complexion and reference to precedents indistinct 
through sheer volume of voice, to repeated offers either 
to ‘‘ faight it out ” there and then or to leave the de- 
cision to Storer. Shortly, perceiving that he had no 
superiority either in lungs or logic, and feeling besides 
cock-sure of the issue, suddenly closed the dispute, 
seized the ball and sent it swishing down the wicket 
before the fielders could get back to their places. It 
went off the batter’s hand, a stinging blow, straight to 
Poley who was hurrying back to slip. Ordinarily a 
safe catch, he dropped it. Shortly swore, but com- 
pendiously, like a business man who postpones the 
deferrable to the urgent. He put all his thoughts and 
feelings into his next ball, whose pace was frightful, and 
it found Beiley on the left leg. Beiley set his teeth. 


THE WHITSUNNING 


21 


pulled himself together and determined to stop. Look- 
ing about him he took particular notice of point, who 
having at a beck from Shortly approached within two 
yards of his bat, had his eager hands ready for the catch 
and his mouth for the chuckle of success. The batsman 
cut the next, a short-pitched one, square and hard, 
straight at point’s head and knocked him backwards. 
The fielder touched the ball with one hand but did 
not save his face. ‘‘Well troid at, surry!” shouted 
Harry as he got up ; but that did not staunch the bleed- 
ing of his nose. He wished to retire to a safe fielding 
distance but was sternly forbidden by his captain, of 
whom the umpire at his own end privately inquired 
whether he could have given the batsman out for “ nose- 
ending the fielder;” for which he was openly, insult- 
ingly and minutely directed the nearest way to the 
county lunatic asylum. 

The following ball, the tenth of the over, being 
similarly pitched, was similarly treated, sprained point’s 
thumb and went away for a safe single. Point ob- 
stinately rebelled against his position, and was relieved 
as well as offended by a rearrangement of the field, 
whereby Peter gave place to him at short leg. 

‘‘ Yo’ll hae noat to do theer,” said Shortly, “but 
keep yer fingers boottered an’ dodge the balls.” 

The bowler at the other end was methodical, straight, 
medium-paced and easy; the professional bowled faster 
than ever but without his head. The batsmen had put 
another forty on before Harry, lashing out at a shortish 
one, lifted it into the sky out of sight. Three or four 
fieldsmen made trembling preparations for muffing it; 
nobody knew where it was but Shortly. He rushed to 
the left, knocked down mid-off who stood in his way, 
and with one foot on firm ground, the other on the 
prostrate fieldsman’s chest, brought off a wonderful 
catch. All out for 8i and but half an hour left for play. 

“ There won’t be no toime to lick ’em,” said Shortly; 
“ it’ll be nobbut a draw, an’ be danged to ’t.” 

“Can thee baowl, counter-joomper ?” said Harry. 


22 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ No,’* said Beiley. 

‘‘ Then thou mun holl.^ Oi’ll tek the top end, thou 
shalt tek the bottom. Ram in; baowl fast at their legs 
an’ steady at their wickets an’ we shall slate ’em yit.” 

Harry’s first ball, a terrific shooter, sent Shortly’s 
middle stump flying. The professional’s only relief, 
after he had done swearing at the pitch, was to begin 
swearing at his team, and insult his best men by 
forthwith reversing the order of going in. It was in- 
deed hard on him, for Harry hardly bowled another 
straight ball the rest of the innings; but the bats- 
men were cowed and he had it all his own way. He 
proved to be as fierce and random a bowler as he was 
a batsman ; whether by gift natural or of the beer he 
had drunk. His pace was terrible; half his deliveries 
were wides, which the weary perspiring umpire only 
occasionally noticed; some never left the ground, some 
bumped up house-high. Every over he hit one or two 
of the unhappy batsmen on the body, and every time 
they were hit the umpire gave them out leg before. 
The squabbles were incessant. The umpire, intimidated 
by Shortly, gave But the more erroneous decisions; 
allowed Harry double the proper number of balls to 
the over, and once when four byes had been run said 
on appeal, “Wide! out!” It was furiously disputed 
whether the wides should be recorded or the batsman 
leave. Finally it was left to the other umpire’s judg- 
ment, who, being desirous of conciliation and naturally 
of a cooler habit of body, decided that both the batsman 
should go out and four be added to the score. The 
professional delivered six formal challenges to “ faight 
it out ” to as many of his antagonists. 

Meanwhile all Beiley had to do was to keep on trund- 
ling his “donkey-drops” at the other wicket. Harm- 
less though they appeared, the unnerved batsmen could 
do nothing with them but scoop them up into the hands 
of the fieldsmen, who brought off about one catch in 
every six. So it was that in spite of the prolonged 
^ Hurl, throw. 


THE WHITSUNNING 


23 


debates there were still four minutes wanting to time 
when the last man went in. He had been straitly 
warned by Shortly : 

‘‘ Stick yer bat i* th’ block-hull, man, an’ pray or 
oat as keeps yer from thinkin’ o’ th’ baowlin’, while th’ 
oad fool of a hoompoire out ‘ Toime.’ ” 

He did as he was told. Harry was bowling; his 
first was straight for a wonder, went off the bat into slip’s 
hands and was dropped. Harry crammed all he could 
of his fury into the next ball. It rose like a demon 
and smote the batsman on the left elbow, a sounding 
thwack. Privately the umpire thought he was out, 
but having just then Shortly’s last menace chiefly in 
his mind he said “In!” The batsman was going 
however, ruefully rubbing the injured joint. 

“ I’ve gen yer in, Tom,” said the umpire. 

“ I know yo’ve gen me in, thank yer,” said the bats- 
man, “but I’ve gen mysen out.” 

He stoutly refused to go in again at the persuasion 
either of threat, jeer or argument, and so Harry’s side 
won just on time by fifty-nine runs. 

When they returned to the house noisily exultant or 
abusive, they found that all their comrades had come 
out into the street except those who remained glued to 
their seats, still capable of thirst but all their other 
faculties locked up. In the middle of the roadway a 
dark-skinned foreigner was playing a barrel-organ ; a 
red-coated long-tailed monkey was perched on it, and 
beside it old Fan was dancing with remarkable agility. 
She had thrown her hat on the ground and the sun fell 
unmitigated on her head. Her face was of a purplish 
grey meagrely fringed with wisps of grey hair; her 
expression was serious, not sad; she held her hands 
akimbo and skipped round and round with little grace 
but much spirit to the tune of “ The Soldiers of the 
King.” The pavement was crowded with amused on- 
lookers; the monkey hopped and gibbered; his fellow- 
artist who turned the handle smiled and smiled, in- 
dolently expectant of ha’pence. 


24 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


Presently a white-headed labourer, solemnly drunk, 
Daniel Cutts they called him — he was the oldest of the 
party — stood forth on the other side of the organ, and 
began shuffling his heavy boots in simulation of the 
dullest and slowest of bear-dances. He held his trem- 
bling hands as high as his head, and lifting one foot 
and then the other in clumsy alternation turned him 
about this way and that. His friends clapped hands, 
laughed and shouted : 

“Well done, Daniel!” 

But soon a child pushed between the legs of the 
spectators and darted into the road, a little thing of no 
more than six. Taking her place betw^een the beldame 
and old Daniel she capered with a natural grace, 
bare-headed, one tiny hand uplifted, the other daintily 
extending her skirt. She was poorly dressed, but had 
a gift of golden hair which the sun*s rays shone through 
and through, being akin to it. The organ bleated 
“ The Soldiers of the King;” the organ-grinder smiled 
on, as though he were too lazy to be either less pleased 
or more; the monkey gibbered and hopped; old Fan 
frisked it tipsily until the wisps of short grey hair stood 
off from her unvenerable head; Daniel slowly changed 
foot, apparently unconscious of the surroundings; be- 
tween them the little child danced, light-footed and 
light-hearted; the bystanders laughed and shouted less 
and admired more. 

But all at once as it seemed, the music ceased, the 
dancers stood still, the little child disappeared. The 
musician having picked up his pence, slung the organ 
on his back, the monkey clambered to his shoulder, the 
holiday-makers pushed again into the inn, the on- 
lookers went their several ways. 


CHAPTER III 


THE USUAL TOASTS 

The meat-tea with its superabundance of wet and dry 
was a long affair. It might have been deemed impos- 
sible that persons with so much beer inside them could 
have entertained so excellent a thirst for tea ; or while this 
was in course of satisfaction could have kept so insatiable 
and indiscriminate an appetite for pork-pie, plum-cake, 
pastry, shrimps and ox-tongue. The chairman, the 
general dealer, set them the example. But the meal, 
however much prolonged, came to an end at last, when 
there was still an hour or two left before the time fixed 
for their departure. Three or four of the men fell im- 
mediately and irrecoverably asleep. The remainder un- 
did half their waistcoat-buttons, took out their pipes, 
very deliberately filled and lighted them, gave the busy 
waiters their further orders, and so prepared themselves 
either to talk or listen. Of the listeners there was per- 
haps one to every dozen of the talkers. The listening 
was somewhat somnolent, the talk confusedly composite. 
It was like a solo or soli accompanied by the intricacy 
of a much-divided chorus; provided that part-music 
has ever been written in which the soloists descant 
each in his own key discordantly to the others and to 
the chorus, which also has as many parts as executants, 
each differing from the others in pitch, tune, time and 
expression. One loudly delivered matter of a delicate 
domestic character, another discussed in the ear of his 
next neighbour the public rumour from Manchuria or 
South Africa; this man made a jest obscurely sportive, 
that commenced and recommenced an anecdote, or 

25 


26 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


perhaps several. Harry and Shortly hotly disputed 
about the last cricket match between Notts and Derby- 
shire; George was understood to be complaining that 
something of which he had overeaten was underdone; 
his neighbour laughed aloud at humorous conceptions 
which he tried in vain to communicate. The man op- 
posite bewept a love disappointment which had befallen 
him a generation ago; a third wondered where wool 
would be in ten years; to whom concurrently a fourth 
was elaborately explaining the advantages of budding 
over grafting, while a fifth doubted between himself 
and the table whether the boom in bicycles would make 
up for a falling lace-trade; a sixth sang, a seventh 
swore, but whether generally or particularly the man 
who listened to him — he had a man who listened to 
him — did not gather. Above and amid all which the 
women squealed, squeaked, chattered and whispered 
about babies and other ailments, about dress and what 
they liked best for dinner, about the deficiencies and 
redundancies of the absent. Everybody did just as he 
liked, which had a disgusted attraction for Lord Beiley, 
who had been exclusively used to a society in which 
nobody did as he liked. 

Every now and then the chairman or some other 
person of strong ambition and good lungs attempted, 
one at a time or by twos and threes, to address the 
general ear about the education question, about a 
miraculous cure for squint, about the latest squabble 
in the church choir, about a wonderful pup, a funny 
dream, or wherein taxation and protection differs from 
protection and taxation. Meanwhile the smoke settled 
in clouds among speakers and listeners, and the waiters 
went to and fro taking orders. 

At intervals one or another of musical celebrity 
obliged the company. Some listened, some applauded, 
some supported the singer with their voices, some 
talked about their fondness for music. A flushed tenor 
with an excellent voice but defective production gave 
them the “ Death of Nelson,'’ a bass and baritone a 


27 


THE USUAL TOASTS 

rudely vigorous rendering of The Wolf/’ somewhat 
marred by an ill-connected accordion obbligato by Peter. 
Up-to-date music was represented by “ Dolly Gray,” 
sung by Peg in a reedy voice oppressed, almost sup- 
pressed, by pork-pie and the day’s etceteras. 

” Y’ud a missed summat if y’adn’t a heerd that,” said 
the barber to Lord Beiley. 

” I should,” said his lordship to the barber. 

Twice or thrice the chairman, after much rapping 
on the table to clear a way for his own voice through 
the press of voices, rose and proposed the usual loyal 
toasts, first affirming that they needed no recommend- 
ation from him and then at length recommending them. 
They were honoured by such of the company as were 
penetrable to outside influence in hearty draughts of 
whatever liquor stood before them. Burton brew or Scotch 
distillation, hot with or cold without. Finally he begged 
to submit to them a toast which would equally appeal 
to them as men — or ladies — and citizens. He called on 
them to drink to the bulwark of their religion, the Banner 
of their liberty, the saving-grace of their noble con- 
stitution. He alluded of course to the ’Ouse of Lords. 
And so with uncompressed fluency he desired to include 
in the compliment the name unknown of one who yet 
they were proud to call an acquaintance, a guest, might 
he say a friend? Here those who understood the least 
were loudest in their permission and applause. He 
pointed to a gentleman who, he was given to under- 
stand, no doubt on sufficient authority, was in a state 
of acquaintance if not intimacy to one of the noble 
peers in the immediate county. He asked leave there- 
fore in calling on them to honour the ’Ouse of Lords 
to couple with it the name unknown of the gentleman 
on his right, three from the bottom. 

With the help of the chairman’s fat finger, cries of 
” Counter-joomper !” taps on his shoulders, slaps on 
his back, nudges in his ribs, Beiley was made to take 
it in that he was the person thus honourably designated. 
He uprose, none too clear in the head, one of fifty at 


28 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


a table ; but immediately on his rising he came into dis- 
tinct vision, bodily and mental, of his situation. Through 
air thick with smoke, foul with the breath of their 
mouths and the sweat of their bodies, he saw a number 
of faces about him variously distorted by laughter, all 
drink-flushed, all sensual, some reduced to a drivelling 
idiocy or a sullen apathy. Half-a-dozen of the men 
leant back against their chairs or forward upon the 
table in diverse invertebrate attitudes, mere carcasses. 
The widow had her head in her lap and snored like a 
gorged sow. His disgust was complete, with himself 
and them. Nevertheless he spoke, deliberately, in a 
voice subdued yet clear. 

“ Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, for myself and 
on behalf of the others included in this compliment I 
thank you. How we’ve deserved it, I don’t exactly 
know.” 

The ‘‘Hear, hear’s ” and “No, no’s” were about 
equal in volume. 

“You, sir, were good enough to compare us to a 
sheet anchor. I don’t know what a sheet anchor is.” 

“ It’s a way of talking,” said the chairman huskily. 

“ A dry-sheet anchor,” said Poley, “ is the oppos-ite 
to a wet-blanket anchor.” 

“If it means a very untrustworthy sort of anchor, I 
think I may, with thanks, accept the compliment.” 

“What dost mane, counter-joomper ?” cried Harry. 
“ Thou’rt gone dotty, mon.” 

“You don’t appear to me, sir,” said the chairman, 
“ to be speaking to the question.” 

“ Ler’im be,” said George. “ The lad’s hed a sup; 
that’s all.” 

“ He has the makin’s of a cricketer,” said Shortly 
defiantly. 

“ Damn all politics,” said the butcher. 

“ But ourn,” said one of the umpires. 

Lord Beiley coldly put the interruptions by. 

“ When I go down, sir, to the place which you’ve 
so generously panegyrized, I go simply because the 


THE USUAL TOASTS 


29 

bore of life seems a little less after the bore of legis- 
lation.’' 

Probably nobody quite comprehended; none the less 
all disapproved. Perhaps the difference of his speech 
and manner made that resented which would otherwise 
have passed. One or two of the sleepers heard amid 
their drenched dreams a rumour of unacceptable doc- 
trine, and snorted dissent. Others made utterance more 
or less articulate, as nearly all together as possible. 

‘'Stosh it, counter-joomper !” 

“ Freeze up !” 

“Talk o’ summat else!” 

“ Sit thee down, lad !” 

“ Yo mun larn to carry what yo’ve took.” 

“Ne’er mind ’im, ’e don’t mean the hafe o’ what ’e 
says.” 

“ No more o’ this blether.” 

“ Too much on’t a’ready.” 

“ Let the lad hae his say.” 

“Ay, hear both sides an’ ’tach yersen to nayther.” 

The women refrained from the demonstration. Their 
politics consisting mainly of pork-pie and beer, they 
did not see why anybody with a practicable thorough- 
fare to an effective stomach should not be of the right 
way of thinking. 

“Why can’t they be quiet?” said Liz. “I declare 
I ain’t heerd niver a word yit. I think ’e speaks 
beautiful.” 

“ ’E’s very nyst looking,” said the butcher’s wife. 
“ I do like that way o’ partin’ the ’air in the middle.” 

When the outcry had diminished to an undividable 
murmur, Beiley continued as though unconscious of the 
interruption. What he had drunk had added a quarrel- 
some ingredient to his blood. 

“ When a person allows himself to be promoted from 
the Commons to us, he is said to be kicked up-stairs. 
Some of us have no voice in the matter. Little peers 
are born with the marks of destiny’s hob-nailed boots 
on their tender little persons.” 


30 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


The chairman rose to order. He regretted they had 
admitted into their ranks a radical in the disguise of a 
gentleman. They could usually see the difference with 
their eyes shut. In this particular instance they had 
been ’oodwinked. He implored the company to re- 
main calm ; he was resolved to do his duty. He called 
upon the speaker either to resume his seat or disresume 
his rabid revolutionary talk. To which Beiley replied 
by fixing his eyeglass. The glassy stare angered even 
those who would have been invulnerable to argument 
or abuse. There was a general exclamation against his 
attitude, whether under the name of cheek, side, splauge, 
harragance or snotty pride. The men uprose, all who 
were capable of the upright position, save only the 
barber, who was a man of peace, and Shortly, who 
never got excited over anything of less moment than a 
game of cricket. 

“Don’t employ unnecessary violence, gentlemen,” 
said the chairman; “that’s a very good quality suit.” 

Harry took him by one arm, Davy by the other, and 
led him forth, the rest crowding after and adding the 
impetus of their united weight. Harry kicked the shins 
of one who got his knee on too free terms with the peer’s 
hind-quarters. 

“ Hay kep his end up whilst oi made th’ runs. Oi 
wunna hae him tantoozled.” 

No further violence was offered, and no insult but 
the accompaniment of their laughter. Their good- 
humour had been restored by the ease of their victory. 
So they thrust him along the passage and out into the 
open, then retreating left him there. A rough hand, 
but not unfriendly, clapped his cap on his head hind- 
before. He went a few yards up-street, then stood. 
His expellers had gone back into the inn. The sweet 
cool evening air contrasted as strongly with the defiled 
atmosphere which he had just left, as that uplifted sky 
did with the room’s low ceiling, dingily papered. The 
ancient minster sternly fronted him ; its two grey towers 
were like two hands raised in prayer. The few shops 


THE USUAL TOASTS 


31 


had their shutters up. Down the street boys and girls 
were playing at tickey, but at such a distance as put the 
proper hush upon their noise. 

From within he heard the loud complacent laughter 
of his late comrades, and the grating of their chairs, 
the shuffling of their feet on the gritty floor as they 
took their seats again. His outwardly directed wrath was 
qualified by an inward dissatisfaction, as though he 
were vaguely conscious that his time would have been 
spent even more futilely, if less grossly, with his habitual 
companions; that he had that day got closer to men 
than he had done for many a day, not more physically 
than spiritually. 

He walked up the street. If only he could have 
walked to an end, sudden, abysmal ! Yet his was not 
the despair, sometimes heroic, always respectable, of 
a soul thwarted by circumstance; it was the despair, 
meaner by far, of a soul coddled by circumstance. The 
fondness of the mother may be more pernicious than the 
harshness of the step-dame. 

He saw neither the houses, which he soon left behind, 
nor the trees, nor the division of the road. Only once 
he looked out of himself; he was on a hill; the sun’s 
level rays smote directly upon his eyes, and it was the 
physical trouble perhaps which roused him. The 
luminary was about to set, apparently in undiminished 
radiance, but as he looked, a black cloud stole in from 
the west and blotted out the red glory. At the same 
time a secret shiver disturbed the warm contentment 
of the air. He walked on^ but more slowly. The cloud 
in the north-west grew. A variable uneasy wind arose 
and lifted the dust. There was still light enough for 
a man to see his way and do his work by, but the glad- 
ness of the day was at an end. 


CHAPTER IV 


TURN TO THE LEFT 

The light of the half moon, as yet only threatened 
by the gathering clouds, had begun to predominate 
over the daylight. He was going downhill, when he 
heard wheels behind him, the grating of a brake pressed 
hard and a babel of voices, singing, shouting and 
laughing. He walked aside while the vehicle passed, 
the two vehicles as it turned out. The first went by 
without recognition, but from the second he was hailed 
by a voice, by various voices, amid a chorus of laughter. 

‘‘Why, it’s the counter-joomper !” 

“It’s his lordship, sure-ly!” 

“Art walkin’ to t’ouse o’ lords?” 

“ Joomp in, matey, joomp in.” 

“Can’t yer see ’s, lad? Then stick yer eye-glass 
in yer eye.” 

“Stop yer double pair o’ jackasses, Sam Meldrum; 
theer’s a lady to git up.” 

They stopped the brake just at the foot of the hill. 

“Thank you,” said Beiley, “I don’t think you’re 
going my way.” 

“We turn to the raight for the Mansfield road.” 

“ I turn to the left.” 

“ Ourn’s the gainest ^ for Nottingham.” 

“ I’m not going to Nottingham.” 

“ Well, iv’rybody knows his own business.” 

“ Except Gos’awk Goodyer as on’y knows iv’rybody’s 

“ If thou’st ony fault to find wee ’s theer’s me an’ 
the barber, ayther on ’s ready to gie thee the satisfaction 
of a faight.” 

^ Nearest. 

32 


TURN TO THE LEFT 


33 


‘‘Thank you, Pm quite satisfied.” 

“ Shake bonds then an* part friens.” 

Beiley shook indiscriminately a number of hands that 
were put forth to him ; hot mostly, but some moist, 
some dry, some lean and some plump, some rough, 
others smooth and tailorish, but all hearty in their grip. 
Good-night was said and said again with lusty good- 
fellowship. The vehicles moved ahead. The hubbub 
of singing and shouting voices, the laughter and the 
cornet, grew fainter to the foot-goer*s ear as he walked 
after it without haste. For why should he hasten ? In 
a few minutes he came to a cross-road. The lights of 
the brakes twinkled faintly to the right; he turned to 
the left as had been inevitably shapen for him by the 
Lachesis of a lightly-spoken word. 

The rising wind blew from the north-west. The 
moon shone on his right and wrote at length across 
his path the shadows of the wayside trees, which every 
now and then were blotted out as a black grey-edged 
cloud for a short time intercepted the light. The 
change from light to dark may have coloured his 
thoughts, it did not influence their shape. Twice he 
was met and passed by a wayfaring man. To the first, 
who bade him good-night, he gave no reply ; the second 
did not speak and his ear seemed to expect and miss 
something. Thrice he went the length of a consider- 
able village; but his eye made no distinction between 
the ranked hedges and the irregularity of the houses. 
At the last village everybody was abed. Gradually the 
disorder of his thoughts was, not arranged, but lulled 
by the rhythmic repetition of his footsteps. And all 
the way he had the moon upon his right. 

But there came a time when by a slow change he 
had it at his back, and the grey road was peopled by 
no shadow but his own, extended before him like a 
grotesque egoism. He went on until the action of his 
brain became as merely mechanical as the action of his 
legs. And yet through his eyes it must have had a 
certain outlook, for by degrees he became more than 
3 


34 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


passively aware that on his right Eand, running parallel 
to the road on which he walked, was another pathway 
only separated from it by a narrow strip of dark ; a path- 
way not dully invariably grey like his own, but inhabited 
by a multitude of moving shimmers, of darknesses that 
came and went. He stood still; for the first time he 
looked back. The moon overhung the glimmering way 
and was reflected in it, with such a reflection as the 
terrestrial may offer of the celestial, broken, confusedly 
multiplied, disquieted, dimmed. 

There was moreover a sound of running water, a 
sound which seems in the night-time like the proper 
accompaniment of tears. He knew that the shining 
pathway was a river; he did not know what river. On 
the other side of it was the black outline of a tree-clad 
steep. The wail of the wind among the trees reached 
his ears and the short quick sobbing of the water was 
unceasing. He felt a certain obscure relief when at a 
ferry the road swerved abruptly to the left and quitted 
the river’s brink. 

He was again passing through a village. He had to 
leap out of the way of a furiously-driven trap packed 
with half-a-dozen noisy revellers. Thus aroused he 
for a time walked more briskly, had the conscious use 
of his eyes and distinguished between the houses and 
the trees. His attention was caught by some black 
lettering staring in the moonlight out of a white ground, 
“ Elham Post and Telegraph Office.” It made instant 
reconnection between himself and what he had broken 
from. He knocked loudly at the dark door of the house 
until a man’s head was put forth from the window 
above. 

“What do you want,” said the man, “this time of 
night ?” 

“ I want to send a telegram.” 

“ You can’t; the office closes at seven. Besides we’re 
all in bed.” 

“ I’ll pay anything you like, but I must send,” said 
Beiley like a man sure of his argument. 


TURN TO THE LEFT 35 

Tm not obliged to, you know,*’ said the post- 
master. 

However he withdrew his head, and after a little 
delay came down-stairs. The telegram was written and 
accepted; to the best-man of the morrow’s bridegroom, 
Gerald Beiley, Hotel Robinson, Nottingham. For the 
minute Beiley had been again a man of the world ; but 
when once the stamps had been stuck, the money passed, 
the door shut, that strange sense of detachment again 
visited him. On he walked with only this point to his 
aim, that it was impossible for him to turn back — yet. 
The moon sank low in the west; the light grew less 
and less. 

Again his perceptions rose to the surface. A heavy 
shower had come on, and he felt the spattering rain 
on his left hand and cheek, heard its muttered roar 
among the trees. It was a rest to him for the time 
being to be less conscious of the aimless gyrations of 
his mind and more of his bodily fatigue. It was a 
break in his solitude to feel the companionable buffeting 
of the storm. He noticed it when presently it beat upon 
his right side instead of the left. He must have turned 
sharp with the road, albeit unawares. But soon the rain 
passed ; he again left minding what was without. Again 
the clock was at a stay. Time had but one mode, a 
present vacuous yet perturbed, a present indistinguish- 
ably one with a sorry past, an undesirable future. 

By some process which was hardly sight, he became 
aware that he was again skirting the river. He was 
walking along a high walled bank, lined upon his left 
with houses, blank-faced, lightless, lifeless. Below 
flowed the stream, on the far side of an unvarying black- 
ness, on the near of a mutable blackness, sparsely flecked 
in the midst with grey and broken lights, appearances 
and disappearances, ghostly glimmerings. The clouds 
came on anew and clean wiped out the remnant of the 
moon. It was hard to believe that that murky flood 
had ever sung to the sun. The houses ceased, and soon 
river and road again parted company. By chance he 


36 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


looked up, and in a transitory gap between cloud and 
cloud saw hard by the zenith a star, one inconsiderable 
star, a mere point of light in an abyss of blackness. 
So long as it continued visible he stood and gazed 
at it. 

The man is not alone who goes into a solitude with 
all his conventions about him ; he is surrounded by a 
whole world of onlookers. But there had been a breach 
made in that perfect fastidiousness of Beiley’s which is 
the stamp of his clique. He had got a little way, if but 
a little way, apart; he felt alone. 

The star was covered; he moved on. The road was 
always on a level, and at intervals of a mile almost 
exactly spaced there was a small village or hamlet; but 
these were stiller than the hedged lane, where the gusty 
wind with an ever-changing voice, weirdly eloquent, 
roared, whistled, howled, moaned, sighed, whispered to 
tree and bush. Moreover every now and then a shower 
fell and added another sound, a many-toned concert of 
murmurs, one to every leaf of tree and blade of grass; 
so different from the monotonous mechanical complaint 
of the rain on slated roof or stony pavement. These 
differences Beiley could not appreciate, and yet, being 
in a measure alone, he may nevertheless have been im- 
pressed by them. 

He must have lapsed into that kind of colourless muse, 
in which what is without has the same visionary sem- 
blance as what is within ; for thrice in a quarter of a 
mile he passed on his left hand a tiny clump of fir-trees, 
but just visible against the clouded sky, and he could 
not say whether it was reality or the repetition of a 
dream. But a fourth such clump being on the right 
made a slight awakening difference. Or if anything 
more were wanted to prove to him that he did not sleep, 
the rain again came on. He was immediately aware that 
the large wind-driven drops did not fall on his right 
hand with the same unresonant patter as on his left and 
about his feet, but with the manifold plop of water pelt- 
ing down upon water. It was the river again. He 


TURN TO THE LEFT 


37 


could just see over the low hedge the inconstant division 
of its wan shudderings from the dusky solid bank. He 
turned his head to what was before him and walked on. 

Soon the river once more broke abruptly away and 
was lost to sight. He wished to make the parting final. 
He was not a timid or nervous man ; he had willed his 
renunciation of superstition to be complete, whether the 
survivals of ignorance, the conventions of religion, the 
ingenuities of science or the fabrications of a prurience 
whose creed is its amusement; nevertheless to the primi- 
tive part of him, insuppressible however overlaid, those 
sombre recurrences were as an obscure prophecy of evil. 
There would seem to have come to him an inkling of 
an unfathomable terror underlying that film of assurance 
which was all he had to go and stand and build upon. 
He came to a meeting of roads and there turned sharply 
to his left. 

The moon had set unseen ; the swift black clouds 
fought for the sky unequally with a few faint stars. 
The sense of the universal largeness and the ego’s 
littleness, if we have it at all, is more insistent by night. 
The vague aloofness of the horizon, the exiguity of yon 
star that quivers on the very verge of nothingness, the 
solitariness of the man who looks up at it, increase his 
aptness to be impressed. The differences of shade are 
on a large scale, without elaboration. Single trees are 
lost in the mass of wood; except that one hard by which 
hugely overhangs and menaces. What carpets the 
earth is merged in the earth itself. There is nothing 
small but this one insignificant being, the centre and 
pin-prick of the universe. 

Turning and turning again he quite lost the sense of 
direction, and in about half an hour’s time came upon 
some tiny fir-clumps, three in succession upon his left. 
He could not restrain himself from the prickly shiver 
that for a moment invaded his skin. He knew that 
he had returned upon his steps, that a little further and 
thefe would be the fir-clump on his right, and then 
once more the dark river. 


38 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


So it was. There was so little light to see it by that its 
appearance was merely spectral. He went by. Ahead 
he heard the pants of a laboured breathing, saw some- 
thing like a fiery serpent flying low; the lights and 
sound of a distant passenger train. He came again 
to the cross-roads; he did not choose his way; he had 
no longer any hope of avoiding the inevitable. He 
heard a bell behind him, he stepped aside ; a bicycle and 
its rider sped by without breaking the loneliness of the 
night, and were quickly, light and all, out of view. 

It was the darkest of the night; the rain again 
fell, the clouds completely held the sky. They 
let through barely enough thrice-sifted light to dis- 
tinguish the sky-line of the humble house-roofs — he 
was among houses again — from that of a little low- 
towered church. A white tombstone showed, and but 
just showed, ghost-like, as if by its self-light, over the 
churchyard wall. He knew at the same moment that 
he again had the river for companion. He could not 
see it; the voice of its complaint was just then swallowed 
up in the bluster of the wind; but he recognized some- 
how that something on his right darker than the clouds, 
darker than the path before him, darker than hedge 
or house-wall, that mere abyss. He could not away 
with it. It must be remembered in his excuse that 
he was suffering reaction from his late alcoholic ex- 
citement; that his mind had been shaken by a continued 
agitation, his body weakened and his spirit dulled by 
a prolonged exertion. Yet he was afraid to be so much 
afraid as to go back; he groped rather than looked for 
a gap in the fence or wall that was on his other hand. 
Soon he found one, turned away and escaped — that is 
the word — up a narrow alley. 

He had been afoot some six or seven hours; the 
numbness of fatigue came upon him ; he continued to 
walk, but like a mechanism. His road now lay along- 
side a great railway. He heeded the violent hurry of 
the trains out of the silence, into the silence, as little 
as the rain which came and went, and the wind dried it 


TURN TO THE LEFT 


39 


in the road and on his coat. One bird after another 
took his head from under his wing, stirred, shook his 
feathers out and began according to his gift to chirp or 
croak or sing. The grey of the eastern horizon slowly 
paled. 

The whizz of white wings so close as to seem like 
the menace of a blow made him look up. He heard 
the shriek of a sea-bird; but the first thing he saw 
was the river at his feet, wan and cold. The sun had 
not yet risen ; the pride of his courage was broken ; 
he turned back. In a minute the path went behind a 
building which stood upon the banks. As soon as he 
lost sight of the river he forgot it, forgot everything 
but his utter weariness. He walked with his left 
shoulder grazing the wall and turned as it turned; so 
coming round a second corner to a doorless doorway 
he went through it, stumbling over the broken thres- 
hold into a sort of room. He was sensible of the 
shelter from the chill breeze. He looked about him 
with half-awakened eyes. There was no seat or couch 
but a heap of rubbish in a corner, dust and straw, the 
waftage of the wind. He lay down on it, sank back 
and was immediately asleep. 


CHAPTER V 


THE WEDDING DAY 

He awoke shivering and aching, but his sense of 
bodily discomfort was immediately lost in bewilderment. 
By inconsecutive bits, like the disarranged parts of a 
puzzle, he pieced together the doings of the day before, 
while he considered his present surroundings. He 
was evidently in the long-disused furnace-room of some 
kind of works. The rude ceiling was shattered; he 
could see into the chamber above, which held a great 
rusty boiler, and up to the roof, through the rifts in 
which the sun peered. He had a painful bruise upon 
his left hand, he could not remember how gotten. He 
walked stiffly out into the open air. He stood on the 
broken stones of a grass-grown courtyard, flanked on 
one side by a high wall, on the other by ruinous build- 
ings of red brick, a steam-mill apparently. Its chimney 
had fallen ; through the gaping windows he saw rank 
upon rank of machinery which stood and rusted. Above 
the broken roof a great number of squealing swifts 
skimmed and wheeled, or darted in and out by the- 
windows ; their wings appeared extremely black against 
the grey-blue of the sky. He went forth by a doorless 
doorway past a dismantled windmill which stood apart 
from the rest of the buildings. That bruise upon his 
hand still puzzled him. 

A couple of barges were moored to the river bank 
and men were unlading gravel from them and carting 
it away. He was surprised that the day appeared so 
well advanced. He took out his watch, in doing which 
he again caught sight of his damaged hand. Forth- 

40 


THE WEDDING DAY 


41 


with he remembered everything; before he had seen 
the time. It was four o’clock; the hour appointed for 
the wedding. The shock of it, the infamy, the horror 
of it for the time stunned him. When he had recovered 
a little he went down to the men at work in the barges 
and asked if there was a telegraph office at hand. One 
man thought he could telegraph from the railway 
station, another said he would have to go to Croby 
post-office; he was in Arby parish. How far off was 
the station ? Better nor half a mile. And how far 
Croby? Not above a mile the gainest road, by yon 
foot-pad. The gain of a few minutes seemed all-im- 
portant; he went off towards the station the way that 
the man’s finger pointed him, at a walk that had the 
hurry if not the speed of a run. 

So he hastened with nothing active in his mind but 
an eagerness to be there, until he was there, at the 
very gate of the station. Then he stopped dead. What 
was he going to do? Patch up a rent in his honour 
with a sixpenny telegram. The attempt appeared 
ludicrous to him ; he parted his lips for the laugh, but 
the laugh did not come. A rent? His honour \vas 
in tatters, it was scattered to the winds. The horror 
proper to the occasion was there, but was confused by 
a medley of other feelings less proper; of recklessness, 
relief, contempt, and a sense almost amused of the 
smallness of Lady Sally’s loss; of a merely physical 
weariness and an indolent appreciation of the tedium 
of the necessary explanations. His eagerness fell at 
one drop to the numbest indifference; except to his 
hunger, and especially to his burning thirst. He turned 
from the station gate to the door of the adjacent 
inn, entered and ordered the best of what they could 
at short notice lay before him. He ate and drank 
heartily — as a rule his appetite was but small — and 
enjoyed thoroughly and deliberately the slow sucking 
of a fine-flavoured cigar. He slept there that night, 
retired early and slept soundly. Usually he went to 
bed late and slept ill. 


42 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


He breakfasted too unusually well on common fare, 
paid his bill and was going. He had succeeded in 
avoiding alike the labour of a regret and the trouble 
of a forecast. As he passed the tap-room door the 
landlord, who was within, thanked him and bade him 
good-day. He stopped in the doorway to make the 
briefest of replies, at which moment a little grimy un- 
kempt wizened fellow, who sat by the door with a 
drover’s staff between his ragged knees, was saying 
in the deepest and most solemn of voices : 

“ I wunner what sort jacket a Norfolk jacket may be.” 

” I believe I have one on,” said Lord Beiley, taking 
himself to be addressed. 

Each occupant of the tap-room turned his eyes on 
him : the drover, the landlord, heavy, dark-com- 

plexioned, taciturn, a postman in uniform, weather- 
beaten and elderly, and a stumpy red-faced man, a 
small farmer it might be, with a newspaper in his hand. 
The latter went on reading, and the eyes of the others 
were withdrawn towards him. 

” ‘ A Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers and cap of grey 
tweed, ribbed woollen stockings to match and laced 
boots. He is five feet eight inches in height-th, of slight 
build, twenty-five years of age, of a pale complexion 
and wholly shaved. At the time of our going to press 
nothing whatever had transpired as to the cause of his 
lordship’s disappearance. Lady Sarah, we are in- 
formed, is bearing the unfortunate contree-tempse with 
admirable fortitude.’ ” 

Beiley stood on the threshold. If he was pale ordin- 
arily he was paler then. 

“Well,” said the postman, “if them’s the manners 
of our haristocracy I don’t think a deal to ’em.” 

“Nor me nayther,” said the landlord. 

“Twenty thousand pound per annium!” said the 
drover with half-witted solemnity. “ Free from all 
incumbers. What sort things is them?” 

“ Cowcumbers, Johnny,” said the farmer with a 
laugh. 


THE WEDDING DAY 


43 


“ Wi’ that plenty o’ money,” said the drover, ” if 
he wanted cowcumbers he might a bought some, or 
any other comfort.” 

“Perhaps,” said the lord moodily, “he was tired 
of comfort.” 

“Then he moot be soft,” said the drover; “as soft 
as grease; as soft as our Tommy.” 

“It’s a good thing,” said the postman, “as Lady 
Sarah bears it so admirable.” 

“ She’d cry,” said the drover, “ mark my word, she’d 
cry as soon as she got round the corner. Wenches 
has feelin’s. I know that by our S’r’ Ann.” 

“ I lay it as Lord Beiley had fun’ out summat again 
her just at the last,” said the farmer. 

“ That ud be about the colour on it,” said the land- 
lord. 

Lord Beiley’s terrible anger only increased his pale- 
ness. 

“ It would be as well,” he said sternly, “ if you didn’t 
intrude into the thoughts and motives of ladies and 
gentlemen.” 

“ I don’t intrude,” said the farmer gruffly, and 
held the newspaper forth; “I’ve paid my ha’penny 
for’t.” 

Lord Beiley felt it to be true ; he had caused scandal 
to be on sale throughout the country by ha’porths, 
scandal about the lady whom he most respected, 

“I bet,” said the postman, “as she’ll mek ’im pay 
pretty heavy yit for this ’ere disappointment.” 

“ If he can’t prove noat again her character,” said 
the farmer; “and he’s bound to hae a good try.” 

Her bridegroom had to stand and hear it. 

“There was once a woman in Ireland,” said the 
landlord, “as got ten thousand pound damages for 
breach o’ promise.” 

“Ten thousand pound! Whew!” said the drover, 
and whistled through the gaps in his black teeth. 
“That’s good market! There moot be much plenty 
o’ money in Ireland, or else a gret scarsity o’ women.” 


44 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ Is there any reward offered, mester,” said the post- 
man, ‘‘for finding on him?” 

The farmer cast his eyes back over the paper. 

“ No; it only says, ‘ The two noble families involved 
will be grateful for any information leading to the dis- 
covery of his lordship’s present whereabouts.’ ” 

“ Ah?” said the postman. ‘‘ Well, to my mind that 
een’t hardly put as if they was very fierce to see ’im 
again.” 

“ All lords is a shafffin’ sort o’ pussons,” said the 
drover. 

“Ah, Johnny,” said the farmer, “then yo’re a 
Radical ?” 

“ I am, Mester Cubit,” said the drover, “ and a ronk 
un ” — he smacked his lips as though he could taste 
the words — “a ronk un. Well,” and he rose, “if the 
wench belonged me I shouldn’t fancy mysen till I’d gied 
’im a esh-plantin’ wi’ this stick o’ mine.” He smote 
the brick floor with his staff. “ I wouldn’t for five 
shillin’, I wouldn’t for a hull hafe-sovereign, as this 
’ed ’appened our S’r’ Ann. Good-mornin’, gentle- 
men.” 

Farmer, landlord and postman laughed at the drover’s 
peculiarity. He went out close at the heels of Lord 
Beiley, who turned outside the door, put three half- 
crowns into the drover’s hand and walked away. But 
before he had crossed the railway he heard himself hailed 
by the drover’s deep voice : 

“Hi, sir, hi! Stop, sir, stop!” 

He turned, and the drover came up to him holding out 
the coins in his unwashed hands, two in one and one 
in the other. 

“Sir,” he said, “ yo meant kindly to gimme the 
price of a pint; yo’ve made a mistake, sir.” 

“So I have,” said the lord, “and I beg your 
pardon.” 

“ Oh, iv’rybody meks a mistake once i’ their lives.” 

“ Even you, Mr. Johnny?” 

“ Don’t tell our S’r’ Ann if yo see ’er. I once gied 


THE WEDDING DAY 


45 

a florin, a two-shillin’ bit, i’stead of a penny. It gies 
me the horrors to this day when I dream about it.” 

Beiley took back the silver, and in their place put 
a like number of sovereigns in Johnny’s palm. 

” Good-day, Mr. Johnny,” he said, and walked up 
the road, leaving the drover fixed in a stony astonish- 
ment. 

He passed the station without even looking at it. 
Before travelling by rail one has to name a destination ; 
for him who moves for the mere purpose of changing 
place without the least drawing from any point of the 
compass, for him his legs are the only beast of burden, 
i The foot-passenger has no need to look one step in 
; advance, he may go as though he stood and the road 
. glided under him mechanically. And Beiley, although 
! so recently severed from the many ties with which 
: custom, indolence, negligence, convention had tethered 
him, was already a vagabond and knew a vagabond’s 
lore. He walked at a vagabond’s easy pace up the 
pleasant rising road and was not altogether displeased 
with his freedom. He had not entirely known until 
\ then what a load he had been carrying ever since he 
had had a man’s shoulders to lay it on. The very 
:: hopelessness of his situation had its reckless comfort. 

1 If he thought about Lady Sally — he avoided thinking 
about her as much as he could — he was willing to take 
l| the news-sheet’s word for it that she was bearing it 
f. admirably. He could imagine, when he must, her 
r high-bred composure, unstrained though pale, amidst 
I the general hubbub. At everything else, the anger of 
i\ his kinsfolk, the contempt or amusement of his acquaint- 
[j ance, the general gape, he snapped his fingers. He 
I walked on without once looking back, or he would have 
seen a little group of four men standing outside the inn 
and gazing up the road at him with much interest. 

It was a day of moods. There was a breeze, fresh, 
i not keep, from the north-west. The broken masses of 
I cloud, white and grey, dark and uplighted, gave an 
especial value to the few patches of blue, even as the 


46 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


constant threat of rain did to the fugitive promise of 
shine. There were frequent showers, as heavy as they 
were short-lived. The road gently ascended, bordered 
sometimes by trees on one side, sometimes on both. 
When after a mile and a half it began to fall again he 
saw before him a considerable park, enclosing a mansion, 
a church and other buildings. Out of mere idleness he 
asked a passing labourer whose estate it was. He heard 
a name that was well known to him ; the bearer of it 
had been invited to his wedding, had been a witness 
of his dishonour. He felt as though the trees testified 
against him. He went back a little way and turned 
aside to the right. He saw many such and even finer 
properties during his wanderings, but never again was 
he so inquisitive as to inquire after name or ownership. 

He continued walking at an easy pace through a 
country that made no impression on his mind, and 
shortly after noon reached a little one-churched town, 
where he lunched at a decent inn. He did not go out 
again that day, yet did not resolve to stay the night 
there until the minute before he rang for a candle. 
Again he retired early, slept well, breakfasted well. 
Being moderately comfortable there he might as well 
have remained another day; that was his own thought; 
nevertheless he was out of doors by ten o’clock in the 
morning. He walked at random by devious ways and 
so found himself tovrards evening at a larger, a three- 
church town, some half-dozen miles from the other; 
went as by instinct straight to the best hotel, dined and 
slept, slept well. Nothing seemed to trouble him but 
his corns and a big blister under each heel. 

He breakfasted well next morning, he who had been 
wont to begin the day with a loathing of food and the 
faces of his fellow-men. Lingering over his coffee he 
cast a desultory eye up and down the newspaper en- 
largements of the “Lord Beiley Mystery” with a con- 
temptuous amusement; which is perhaps the mood of 
all others which best keeps a man in a good opinion of 
himself. He learnt that it was by Lady Sally’s desire 


THE WEDDING DAY 


47 


that the wedditig was to have taken place at Sheraton, 
but that it was his own eccentric choice to put up at a 
Nottingham hotel rather than accept the hospitality 
which had been abundantly offered him. He learnt that 
his best man had received a midnight telegram, “ I have 
gone for a walk. May be late. Have everything 
ready,” which had encouraged him to hope to the last 
minute. He learnt that he had been traced to Welham, 
whither he had gone in the company of a Sunday- 
school party; that he had joined in their cricket match 
and afterwards given them an address on punctuality, 
which was the cause of his missing his train. He learnt 
that he had gone on the operatic stage, for which he 
had a passion. Of this documentary proof was put in, 
his portrait (from a photograph) as an amateur Christy 
minstrel, which in his own opinion flattered his legs 
and calumniated his smile. He learnt in addition that 
his cap had been found on the banks of the river; 
that he had been seen the next day at the Trent-side 
village of Arby, where with a fellow-feeling for singu- 
larity of intellect he had emptied his purse into the hat 
of the parish fool. Lies and truth were interwoven with 
such ingenuity and excellent effect, as made it doubtful 
whether in a perfectly truthful world the clever man 
would have his proper opportunity of displaying himself. 

As he turned out of the hotel hard upon noon of a 
lowering day, he went to the left when he might as well 
have gone to the right; which as I take it is the only 
satisfactory way of beginning a morning’s walk. He 
walked gingerly because of the blisters and was con- 
stantly under the eye of a policeman, who was pacing 
as slowly but more at his ease on the other side of the 
way. At length, after consulting a printed paper, the 
policeman seemed to come to a decision ; he crossed the 
road and addressed his lordship. 

‘‘ Beg pardon, sir, but aren’t you Lord Beiley?” 

“ That is my name. Have you any business with me?” 

“ Only there’s some inquiries being made for your 
lordship.” 


48 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ Inquiries with what object?” 

“ With the object to hascertain jour vicinity, my 

” Well, you’ll be able to satisfy the inquirers. I hope 
they’ll make it worth your while. Good-morning.” 

” Good-morning, my lord.” 

Beiley walked quietly away, leaving the policeman 
on the pavement nonplussed by his perfect indifference. 
Nevertheless he felt the desirability of his leaving the 
town as soon as might be. Still going gently, never 
looking back, he passed the railway station. There he 
hailed a cab and bade the driver take him a few miles 
out into the country, no matter in what direction. It 
is hard to say when the taking of a direction does not 
matter; certainly in his case it did not matter with 
regard to the scenery. His vision only so far departed 
from the close carriage, that he was sometimes aware 
of a change on the borders of the road from trim hedge 
to overhanging wood. When he felt sufficient weari- 
ness of the confinement to be active in it, he stopped the 
cab and dismissed it. His own direction was determined 
by his not having determined; he took the way that 
the driver left to him. 

It was a broad perfectly kept road in the midst of 
a forest; well frequented too, by bicyclists chiefly. Per- 
haps that was the reason, if reason there was, why he 
turned aside at the first grassy glade that offered itself. 
Huge oaks roofed his path over with their continuous 
boughs, their grim trunks walled it about; the lowering 
clouds seemed hardly higher than their tops. He was 
not w^ont to take the colour of his mood from his sur- 
roundings, but he felt them just then to be oppressively 
sombre. 

Later on the clouds removed themselves from the tops 
of the trees, the sun burst suddenly through, and per- 
vading with his light the fresh yellowy-green foliage 
gave it a charm which it had not had before. What 
most struck his sense was the silvery' refulgence of the 
slender birch-stems, which in that part of the forest 


THE WEDDING DAY 


49 


were intermixed with the venerable oaks. It was like 
the laughter of youth qualifying, for the moment trans- 
forming the severity and despondency of age. Soon 
however the clouds returned, the sun’s rays had to 
brook interference, the glistering silver, the luminous 
greens were again degraded to grey, even as the sky 
was grey, with a difference, and those dark enormous 
boles. It began to rain. For some hours he remained 
in shelter under the trees, until hunger and the drip 
of the rain through the trees drove him forth to a 
village situated in a break in the forest. It was a tiny 
one-ideaed place, built to pattern in neat unattractive 
semi-detached cottages. Into one of them he was glad 
to procure admission and permission to go to bed while 
his clothes dried, together with food and a night’s 
lodging. 


CHAPTER VI 


TWOPENCE AN HOUR 

Next morning he felt listless and depressed, more I 
am afraid on account of a cold in the head than of a 
becoming sense of his misconduct. He hardly looked 
at his breakfast. Nevertheless he was pushed out of 
doors by his own restlessness before the bicyclist began 
to haunt the roads. It was a warm close day ; the sun’s 
heat seemed only to strike with more oppressive force 
for the vaporous veil which slightly tempered its radi- 
ance. He walked with his back to it, whereby he was 
the more open to its assault. Soon he came to a tract 
of forest wilder than any he had seen the day before, 
though not so thickly set with oaks. The ground be- 
tween was overgrown with grey-green heather and 
yellowy-green bracken. He was glad to turn aside 
from the hot white road to a narrow path, in which he 
got an intermittent relief from the sun’s tyranny. 

He had loitered so for perhaps an hour, dodging the 
sun, when in a shady nook formed by the meeting of 
two roads he happened on an old stone-breaker plying 
his trade, a little thick-set stubbly-chinned broken- 
down old man. He sat down with his back to an ancient 
thorn-tree, kept the flies off his face with a bracken 
frond, and without interest, through half-shut eyelids, 
watched the stone-breaker’s performance. Between 
strokes the old man peered back at him over his anvil. 
After a while he stopped working and said : 

‘‘ Why don’t yer speak?” 

” Because I’ve nothing to say,” said Lord Beiley. 

”Noat at all?” 

50 


TWOPENCE AN HOUR 


51 


‘‘Noat at all/’ 

“ Then yo are empty. The folks at our pub once hed 
a parrot as said, ‘ ’Ow’s yer poor feet?’ She were full 
to yo.” 

He chipped another stone or two, then laid his tools 
down on the anvil and coming nearer looked Lord 
Beiley over with purblind eyes. We cannot know how 
much he really saw of the languid young man before 
him with red nose and running eyes, and in clothes 
already the worse for the weather; but apparently the 
sum of his impressions was unfavourable, for he said : 

“What’s the matter wi’ yer?” 

“ General depression, old man.” 

“What’s that? Summat i’ th’ belly or summat i’ 
th’ head?” 

“ Both; and in the spirits too.” 

“ Then yo are down, sartainlye i I’ve bin down mysen, 
own more oftener nor hup. But not i’ the sperrits an’ 
all; no, niver.” 

The old man apparently took a sudden resolution; 
there was a little glimmer in his dull eyes, a slight 
tightening of his lax toothless mouth. 

“ Here!” He laid by his hammer. “ Do yer want 
a job?” 

“Desperately bad; I think that’s what I’ve been 
wanting all my life.” 

“Dear heart, that’s bad I that’s mortal bad! Why 
don’t yer tek up wee a sattled trade like me?” 

“ Unfortunately I wasn’t brought up to a trade.” 

“ Tut, tut ! Well, it’s niver too late to begin. D’ yer 
think as I sarved seven years’ ’prentice to thisn ? Not a 
bit on’t; I just went at it full drive. But I reckon I’m 
a wittier man nor yo. Howiver men mun live; they’ve 
guts if they’ve non brains. Look ’ere ! I’ve niver bin 
a gaffer yit. I shouldn’t like to goo to a better place 
afore I’d knowed what it wor to hae men unner yer 
an’ sweer at ’em about noats. Hark at me ! I’ll gie yer 
a shillin’ an’ hafe o’ my dinner if yo’ll finish my day’s 
work for me.” 


5 ^ 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ ril do it gladly,” said Beiley, prophesying he knew 
not what. 

” Gladly ’s a good-promisin’ word; it shows yo’re a 
lad wi’ a bit o’ spunk, if it’s nubbut a bit.” 

The stone-breaker gave up his tools, hammer, hoop 
and the wire shade that protected his eyes ; then sat down 
in the viscount’s place with his back to the knotty thorn- 
tree, filled his pipe and with much visible enjoyment 
began to play the part of employer. But he was ill 
content with his day-man’s first strokes, which splintered 
the stones indeed, but scattered the fragments in every 
direction. 

” Drabbit it, man!” he cried, ” hae yer no more 
gumption nor that? Both yer hands mun be bollocky.^ 
Look at me, nummy, an’ see how I do’t.” 

He was angry no doubt, his wrinkled forehead was 
quite red therewith, but it was an anger which he 
thoroughly enjoyed. He took the hammer from his 
lordship’s ineffective hand with the mien of a superior. 

” Theer ! joost a bit of a tap, smart-like, as if yo were 
giein’ yer kid a scutch across the shou’ders for stannin’ 
i’ th’ gate.” 

Beiley tried again ; but then his blows were too 
gentle, so that nothing resulted but a little complaining 
cry of stone caught between metal and metal. 

‘‘ Not a that ’ow, dang it !” quoth the old man, taking 
his pipe out. “ Y’ud make a dumb man say ‘be 
dalled,’ while a deaf un heerd ’im. Do’t the road 1 
telled yer, yo targel ! ^ By gash, it’ll be much if yo 
get agate afore night-time. B’leddy it will. Damn it, 
it will. I’ve the raight to sv/eer as a employer o’ labour. 
Gie the stun a quick-slow big-little rap ower the head, 
yo boafin,^ like as if ’twor a nut an’ it behoved yer to 
break the shell, but not to scrush the kernel. Do yer 
unnerstan’ that?” 

“ I think I do, partly.” 

” Then fall to an’ do it, partly, or’t will be the worse 
for somebody, partly.” 

1 Left-handed. 


^ Wastrel. 


Simpleton. 


TWOPENCE AN HOUR 


53 


Beiley once more essayed, and by degrees with diffi- 
culty attained to something like a stroke of thevproper 
restrained violence ; so that his employer could sit^tack 
and without removing his pipe insult him at his ease. 
A starling on an oak hard by took much interest in 
their doings, and uttered many comments thereon, 
mainly satirical, to the vast amusement of a flighty blue- 
cap who lurked and looked, lurked and looked, some- 
times erect, sometimes horizontal, sometimes upside- 
down, in that and neighbouring trees. But when the 
sun was at his highest the master stone-breaker brought 
forth his dinner from an old mat-basket, and spreading 
it out on his knees fairly halved if ; then called to his 
day-man : 

“Yo may knock off now, my man. Coom an’ put 
yer back to this stauving ^ an’ see if yer hae a better 
belly for meat nor yer hae for work.” 

Beiley sat beside him, glad of the rest; but to his 
surprise glad also of the humble fare offered him by 
hands none too clean; bread of a dusky white, hard 
coarse-flavoured cheese that bit the tongue, and a 
draught now and again, hobnob with his employer, from 
a bottle of common beer. The satirical starling was 
quiet for the time being; but a thrush from the top of 
an up-standing elm sang his full-throated song, sus- 
tained. not interrupted, by the minor strains of blackbird, 
robin, chiff-chaff and tomtit. 

“ Well, my man,” said the stone-breaker, picking with 
his horny fingers the last crumbs from his rusty cordu- 
roys, ‘‘and how should yer cotton to stun-breakin’ for 
a reg’larity?” 

“ I like it very well, sir, for the time being, but for a 
regularity I should prefer a trade with a little more 
variety.” 

‘‘Variety? What ails the man to be so saucy? 
We’ve a wunnerful sight o’ variety unner this tree. 
M’appen yo think as the sun alius shines an’ the birds 
alius sings an’ the flowers alius blows, an’ e’erything 
1 Stump. 


54 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

goos on all the year round in the same oad cow- 
pad 

Not exactly.” 

” Not exackly? No, nor noat like. Not exackly ! 
What a funny-talkin’ chap yo are, for surelye. We hae 
nubbody like yo i’ these parts, not even hafe-baked Sam 
as even the kids laughs at his talk. I doubt yo mun 
ayther a bin born wantin’ or else a bin bad bro’t up.” 

Between two puffs at the cigar he was lighting Lord 
Beiley answered, ” Probably something of both.” 

” Well, I’m not a-gooin’ to slur yer for’t. A man’s 
born an’ bro’t up how he’s provided, that’s the Solomon 
truth; but a man may pick his trade, within raison. 
Besides this stun-breakin’ I might ha’ done odd work 
for Mrs. Short or gone to the work’us; that’s choice 
enough for any sensable body. What d’ yer say to that ?” 

” I should prefer a choice a little more extensive.” 

” I doubt yo’re a poor shackin’ sort o’ person. Ben 
Hall tells a tale of a man — ’e gies name an’ time an’ 
place to’t, but I’ve forgot ’em — a man as clammed to 
dead afore ’e could mek up ’is mind which side th’ apple 
to bite first. M’appen yo’d perfer to be a lord or some 
sort o’ high quallity ?” 

” No, I think that’s just the kind of trade at which 
I should shine least.” 

“Shoine? Yo moan’t think o’ shoinin’. M’appen 
yo think yo’re the sun, or m’appen the moon ? No, no, 
them high notions don’t suit a iv’ry-day chap like yo. 
I’d a brother as got it into ’is head as ’e moot be a shop- 
boy at Sheffield. He were noat to me ; I weighed a .stun 
more an’ were a good two year yoonger.” 

” What became of him ?” said Beiley, seeing that the 
old man sucked his pipe and did not pursue his story. 

” In six months ’e were dead o’ new-mown-’ay. No, 
no, my man; if yo can break stuns enough i’ th’ day 
to find yer a bite an’ a sup an’ a lay-down at night, it 
behoves sich as yo to be satisfied.” 

” I half think I might be.” 

^ Cow-path, i. e. routine. 


TWOPENCE AN HOUR 


55 


‘‘ Hafe think? What sort rotten fooPs language is 
thatn ? Hae yer nubbut hafe a head? Pve niver hed 
much opinion o* furreners, but yo cap all the furreners 
as iver I seed or heerd. Well, well, what’s the use o’ 
gab?” He returned his pipe to his mouth and con- 
tinued to mutter broken sentences between the puffs. 
” A man is — what ’e is. Yo can’t bully hinder-ends — 
into bein’ the pick o’ the corn.” 

His further utterances were lost upon his employee, 
who, his half-smoked cigar in his idle hand, had fallen 
asleep in an attitude of whose discomfort an occasional 
snort or forward jerk of the head proved that he was 
slumberously conscious. But he did not fully wake 
until he felt the thrust of the old man’s rude hand 
between his ribs. 

” Coom, coom !” said the stone-breaker; “ wakken 
oop ! This is three times I’ve telled yer. I don’t heer 
o’ no plazen wheer yo can addle twopence a hour wi’ 
hutchin’ an’ snorin’.” 

” I’ve but just sat down,” said Beiley. 

” Hark at ’im ! Yo’re bone-idle, my man, an’ 
m’appen yer think if yer niver gets no worser disease 
on yer nor that yo’Il live to a great age. Very like, but 
not i’ my ’ployment; after to-day I’m shut on yer; an’ 
to that ‘ shut ’ I say ‘ good shut.’ ” 

Lord Beiley like any other reluctant day-man had to 
rise, straighten his aching back and grasp the hammer 
again in his sore hand. The sun had discarded the veil 
and shot down his arrows of light and his ardours with 
an almost vertical fury. The heat was overpowering 
even in the shade; the birds neither sang nor sported, 
but the buzzing stinging flies were not to be driven off. 
It was a long, long afternoon ; slow were the shadows in 
lengthening out; the sun seemed to be fixed in the blue 
sky. Still he chipped and chipped with a mechanical 
industry, as though forced on by something outside him- 
self, as though an irresistible task-master stood over 
him and a compulsory metronome timed his strokes. 
Drowsiness came upon him, not with that sweet languor 


56 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


which invites repose; its invasion was the act of an 
enemy. It benumbed his senses but not his sensibili- 
ties, and was so far from dulling his sufferings that it 
was itself an added pain. While still he chipped and 
chipped. 

“ Which is the turn for Sopton, my good man?’* 

He heard the voice as in a sleep, yet heard it with a 
pointed distinctness; and his resentment of its tone 
accompanied rather than followed, so quickly came it 
upon the heels of his hearing. A personal resentment ; 
nay, lo I in a flash a general resentment, of the con- 
descensions which he had, and men like him have for 
uncountable ages, bestow^ed upon common man, making 
a difference between themselves and their fellows ; not a 
distinction but a separation. Probably if he had been 
wide awake, perfectly himself, he would hardly have 
come at it so soon, but he was in that unbalanced state 
when on a rare sometimes the essential man gets the 
better of the man accidental and throws him. He saw 
as well as heard, saw above him a man on horseback, 
perfectly equipped, perfectly well-bred, perfectly in- 
sufferable. 

“ Why do you call me good?” he said. 

The horseman was as unmoved by his anger as a god 
might be by the five-minute fury of a midget. 

“ I beg pardon, I withdraw the epithet if offensive. 
Will you be good enough — kind enough, I would say — 
to direct me to Sopton ?” 

“ Yo should ’dress yersen to me, sir,” said the stone- 
breaker, ” if yo want a unnerstandable answer. The 
man’s nubbut my day-man, an’ no gret shakes of a 
day-man nayther. Yo want to keep strite on, sir, for 
Sopton ; strite on, as strite as yer can goo, while yer 
coom to a turn; then turn to yer left ’and, that-a-road.” 

The horseman thanked him and rode on. Being fully 
awake Beiley hardly comprehended wherein he had been 
offended. He did not however waste thought over it; 
his preoccupations were immediate to himself. He now 
felt an ache in every part from head to foot, but especi- 


TWOPENCE AN HOUR 


57 


ally in the arm and shoulder that struck. His hands, 
which had been chafed, became blistered; soon the 
irritated blisters broke and the hammer’s heft was wet 
with his blood. He was tormented too by hunger and 
thirst, pains new to him; and especially by a growing 
thirst which a rare brief sip at the stone bottle seemed 
only to aggravate. He lacked moreover what distraction 
there might have been in the pass-the-time vituperation 
of the old man, who overcome by the heat and the un- 
wonted rest lay along the grassy bank and snored at his 
ease. But Beiley’s pride took up the office of task- 
master and forbade him to give in. It was self-humiliat- 
ing to know, would have been an open disgrace to con- 
fess, that half a day’s endurance of that poor decrepit 
old man’s year-long burden was too much for his 
strength and courage. 

But the sun was not fixed; slowly the shadows grew 
longer than the objects which cast them ; the birds 
awakening from their afternoon drowse began again to 
pipe. Lord Beiley had never been better pleased in his 
life than when the stone-breaker started wuth a final snort 
from his last slumber, cast his eyes up to the heavens 
and said : 

“ Yo may tek off now. A man can’t be alius at work, 
even if it be nubbut shafflin’ work. That’s proved by 
this : the poorest slowest awk’ardest worker as iver 1 
knowed, next yersen, alius wanted the most hallidays. 
Well, if yo hain’t done a shillin’sworth o’ work, I’ve 
had a shillin’sworth o’ pleasure out on yer. I’ve en- 
joyed this day, I can’t say I hain’t; it’s tasted quite 
different to a Sunday; m’appen becos the chutch bells 
worn’t nag-naggin’ at yer all the time.” 

He took from his trouser pocket a scrap of dirty rag 
gathered with a shred of twine into the semblance of a 
small bag. 

” If yo’re wantin’ yer charicter it’s this : yo’re a man 
as I’d a sight rayther tek on by the day nor the week, 
an’ by the hour nor the day,” 

He untied the rag and disclosed a silver coin and half 


58 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


a dozen of bronze. He took the former, a two-shilling 
piece, between finger and thumb. 

‘‘ I nedn’t ax if yo can change thisn. Yo’ll hae to 
coom wi’ me into the village; we shall manage to get it 
changed theer by hook or crook; we’ve some well-doing 
people.” 

” I think I can give you the change,” said Beiley. 

“Then yo’re better off nor what yo’ve any appear- 
ance.” 

Beiley received the florin and put a sovereign into the 
old man’s palm. 

“ It’s a very bad colour,” said the latter, examining 
the coin with a purblind closeness. “ Howiver theer’s 
the King’s head, an’ if yo can pass for a man I don’t 
see why it shouldn’t pass for a shillin’.” 

“ Thank you, sir.” 

“ Yo couldn’t touch yer ’at to me, could yer? I’ve 
often wunnered how’t felt.” 

“ I’m afraid not; you didn’t bargain for that.” 

“ By gum, it’s funny as sich'a loose worker should be 
sich a stret bargainer. Iv’ry man, be he iver sich a 
wastrel, has one good quallity for sartainlye. Well, 
would yer for twopence?” 

“ I would for threepence.” 

“ Lawk ! the man’s a-coomin’ out. What a rawper 
an’ a scrawper it is! Well, I’m mekkin’ a day on’t; 
say it’s for the next crownation ; thruppence be’t. And 
now ! ’ ’ 

Beiley saluted him, hand to cap, and again said : 

“ Thank you, sir.” 

A sudden brief gleam of pleasure uplighted the 
withered face. 

“ Do’t again,” said the old man, “ do’t again. I 
didn’t hardly see’t; I warn’t prepared.” 

Lord Beiley did it again. The old man seemed to 
smack his lips over it. 

“ It’s unaccountable upliftin’; I don’t wunner as the 
bettermost folk thinks so much to’t. Hae yer iver had 
it done to yo?” 


TWOPENCE AN HOUR 59 


“ Yes/' 

“ How did it mek yer feel ?" 

‘‘No different." 

The stone-breaker peered up into Lord Beiley's face, 
as though taking an inventory of his faculties. 

“I doubt, surry, yo’re a bit wantin' somewheer; 
ayther in yer feelin's or yer thinkin's. I wouldn't a 
missed it for noat. Not if 't 'ad a bin a penny more. I 
wain't niver no more deny but what I've gotten my 
money's worth out on yer. This'll be a day to look 
back on; ay, for years an' years. Don't be down i' th' 
mug; ne'er mind what I said; a man moot hull slurs 
an' brags about if he'd be tho't oat on. Send to me for 
yer charicter; I'll let 'em to know that for a poor wank- 
lin ^ cratur yo've good properties. I reckon yo'll be for 
keepin' to the road like all yo travellin' folk; I'm for 
this-away." 

“I'm for the nearest place where I can get something 
to eat and drink." 

“That'll be Mrs. Houghton's ‘ 'commodation for bi- 
cyclers ' ; but I doubt she wain't 'commodate no tramps; 
she's a farmer's widder. Besides yo'd non find it ; it's a 
hin-an'-out road; a person o' sense might loase hissen." 

Nevertheless at Beiley's persistence the old man gave 
the necessary directions. After bidding him good-day 
he turned back and said : 

“ Could yer do't again ? As a favour." 

Beiley again touched his cap and said, “ Good-day, 
sir." The old fellow shambled off, bowed in the back, 
tottery in the legs, muddled in the head, but quite 
happy. It seemed long, though it was but a mile of 
woodland walking, before his day-man came at once to 
a road again and a little cottage with a modest card in 
the window, “Cyclists Accommodated." He knocked 
and a woman came to the door. 

“ I'm not a cyclist," he said, “ but I'm very hungry, 
and especially very thirsty. Can you accommodate 
me?" 


Weakly. 


6o 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


She led him into a pleasant little room looking away 
from the sun through open windows into a garden, in 
which flowers, vegetables and fruit, bush and tree, grew 
in an admirable disarrangement. From without came 
a child’s voice singing softly : 

“ Come, sun ! 

Day’s begun, 

And the swallows are stirring under the eaves. 

Come, moon ! 

Day is done. 

And the white moth is flitting among the leaves.” 

The air was fresh ; it seemed as though summer were 
but a cool never-intrusive visitor there. The sun still 
lighted up the apple and plum trees, but had taken leave 
of the gooseberries and currants at their feet. Beiley 
washed his bleeding burning hands in cold new-drawn 
water, and then lay back in an easy-chair, expectant of 
the fragrant tea, the sweet cream, the home-made bread 
and butter, the eggs warm from the nest, the jam, the 
scones and quivering icy jelly, which with small delay 
were deftly, silently served up on a snow-white cloth by 
the mistress of the house and a girl of about seven. They 
were both in black; the former, a quiet gentle-eyed 
woman neither young lior elderly, wore a widow’s cap 
and had the marks on her, unmistakable, unobtrusive, 
of a recent grief. 

His thirst was a recurrent pain, so when at last he had 
satisfied his hunger, he lay back in the cushioned chair 
by the open window and drank and rested and then drank 
again from fresh-brewed tea. The incoming air spiced 
by the flowers took the heat from his brow. Ever and 
anon one bee of the many that visited the snapdragons 
under the window buzzed in and buzzed out again ; the 
sparrows chattered on the low eaves of the thatch; the 
pigeons’ coo had a far-off nearness. His w^aitresses, 
both girl and woman, were silent and soft-footed; no 
cyclist came. To recline there half awake w^as a mere 
dream of existence ; its restful quiet without its memory 
^nd other pains. So it was nightfall before he began 


TWOPENCE AN HOUR 


6i 


to think of rising and going on his way, and then with 
repugnance; the road seemed so toilsome, the chair so 
easy. He asked if it would be convenient for him to 
stay the night. The worhan said she was afraid not; 
the house was small ; she had never lodged anybody. 

“Pm very tired; I should have been glad to go no 
further.” 

She looked at him, hesitated, said : 

‘‘I have two bedrooms, sir; if you wouldnh mind 
occupying my daughter’s. It’s small, but I think I could 
make you fairly comfortable for a night.” 

“Thank you, I shall be glad to do so; with the 
young lady’s permission.” 

Within half an hour he was asleep between clean 
cool sheets. But his hostess had done better than her 
promise; for on second thoughts she had given the 
larger room up to him, and herself with her daughter 
occupied the smaller. 


CHAPTER VII 


CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 

The fringe of a thunder-storm passed over the little 
cottage in the night, but without disturbing Lord 
Beiley’s sleep. In the morning it still rained; only 
passing showers, but enough to make a weary man 
think much of the long road. While the girl went in 
and out removing his late breakfast he spoke to her. 
She was a quiet little black-frocked thing with a pale 
face set about with wavy dark-brown hair, and her speech 
had the directness of a shy simplicity. 

“ May I ask your name?’’ he said. 

“Yes,” said she. 

“What is it?” 

“Bertha.” And then after a shy pause, “May I 
ask yours?” 

“ Yes.” 

“What is it?” 

“Jack.” 

“ Mr. Jack or Jack Only?” 

“Jack Only.” 

She went out with cup and plate and returned for the 
coffee-pot. 

“ Bertha, should you object to my stopping here all 
day ?” 

“ No.” The pause as before. “ If you won’t give 
mother a deal of trouble.” 

“ What do you mean by a deal of trouble?” 

“ I mean — I mean — lobster salad. It is a deal of 
trouble, you know, when you’ve no lobsters.” 

“ I will do without lobster salad.” 

62 


CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 


63 


Again the little maid went and returned. 

“If you please, Mr. Jack “ 

“Jack Only, you know.“ 

“ Mother says Td better call you Mr. Jack.” 

“Very good. Miss Bertha.” 

“ But nobody calls me Miss except the rat-catcher.” 

“ Nobody calls me Mister, not even the rat-catcher.” 

In a minute she had gone and come again. 

“ Mother says I may call you Jack, since you desire it, 
but ” — again that odd shy little pause — “ but I mustn’t 
be too familiar.” 

“But about my stopping?” 

“ If you please. Jack, mother says she will be pleased 
for you to remain for the day. What should you prefer 
for luncheon ?” 

“ Whatever is most convenient to your mother.” 

“ Aren’t you poor?” She scanned him, as though to 
see if it were written on him. 

“ No, I believe not.” 

“ All the Onlies about here are. Is it because you’ve 
got their share?” 

“ It may be so.” 

She had already quite forgotten her hesitative shyness. 

“ Couldn’t you give a little of it back? Bill Only is 
so very poor; so is Mary Only. P’raps you didn’t 
know ? P’raps you said, ‘ They’re used to it ; they don’t 
mind.’ ” 

“ I believe I have said so.” 

“ Mrs. Crich said so. But I asked Mary and she said, 
they are used to it, but they do mind. I told Mrs. Crich 
and she said I was a funny little thing. Do you think 
I’m a funny little thing?” 

She put the question with a certain wistful anxiety. 

“Not at all.” 

“ I don’t mind being little till I’m big, but funny 
people always forget not to be too familiar, or else they’ve 
always never been told.” 

“ If I wanted to give a little back to Bill and Mary 
would you take it to them for me ?” 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


64 


‘'Oh yes! Now I must go back to my lessons. I 
had a holiday on Monday and Tuesday. Are you having 
your holiday?’’ 

“ What is a holiday?” 

“ Don’t you know ? It’s a don’t-have-to-do day. It’s 
a day — if there’s something you don’t like doing, you do 
it another day.” 

” Then I think you may say, Bertha, that I am having 
my holiday.” 

Beiley never once went outside the gate all the day. 
So long as it rained he was content to^sit and listen to 
the soft s-less whispering of the rain, to the leaves 
and the little house-noises, subdued footsteps, murmurs, 
rustlings, jinglings, knockings, sweepings; semblances 
of sound, but sufficient to occupy the else unoccupied. 
Once he went to the door and set it ajar that he might 
hear the better; then feeling ashamed shut it again. 
When the rain ceased and the sun came forth, the several 
chants of the birds swelled into a chorus; and Bertha 
tripped softly out into the garden, singing as she went 
in a voice that was as small, high-pitched and musical 
as a blue-tit’s : 

I can’t see the wind but he can see me, 

And he found me behind a great big tree ; 

He blew back my hair and bade me not fear, 

Then whispered a secret into my ear.” 

He put on his cap and went out to her. 

A flower-bed next the house, two plum and three apple 
trees lording it over some dozen gooseberry and currant 
bushes, two rows of young peas and a line of tall stakes 
ready for the scarlet-runners which had just begun to 
appear; finally in the remotest corner a rude thatched 
arbour, whose embellishment of climbing rose, wood- 
bine and white jessamine was not disturbed by any fresh- 
ness of paint or other artificial decoration ; such was the 
garden. One narrow ungravelled path skirted the hedge, 
another led up the middle. It was only separated from 
the surrounding woods by a close of plough-land. But 


CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 


65 


the charm of it was this, that one was always coming 
upon flowers in unexpected places, foxgloves, Solomon’s 
seals, pinks, snapdragons, deep-tinted flags, gillivers, 
French willows, roses, as though they had been arranged 
at the uncalculating will of the birds or the wind or 
a little maid. Bertha skipped down with a step that 
was a rhythmic union of dance, hop and run ; stood a 
little aloof for a minute, as though using herself to 
seeing him out of doors, and then came nearer. The 
rain-sprayed flowers were yielding the prime of their 
scent. 

“ Mother said that as I’d done my grammar moder- 
ately well, I could come out for ten minutes to see if the 
rain had made any difference to my rose-tree. It has 
made a difference; a whole difference. Do you know 
when ‘ crown ’ is a noun and when it’s a verb ?” 

“No. When is it?” 

“ It’s a noun ” Standing under a clump of tall 

lilies she brooded over the answer for a minute, with her 
mind however partly on the bees that went in and 
out of the great white cups. “ It’s a noun when — when 
you know what it is, and it’s a verb when you don’t.” 

“If I stayed here long enough, Bertha, I should 
become as learned as yourself.” 

“Should you like to stay here long enough. Jack?” 

“ I should; I think this must be the garden of Eden.” 

“ Oh no, it isn’t; Eden’s a long long long way off. 
It’s where my box of dates came from. But you couldn’t 
go in, you know, if you went.” She lowered her voice, 
“ There’s an angel.” She drew close to him, as though 
she saw. “With a sword.” The contact like the ap- 
proach of a magnet drew the steel in him, what was best 
in him, nearer the surface. She looked up at him and 
her voice gained confidence. “ But do you think it’s 
a sword that cuts?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“ Very likely not. But I wish he’d leave it at home, 
out of the reach of the children. Tom Barnsley has a 
sword that doesn’t cut; it’s only wood; and I shouldn’t 

5 


66 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

run away when he says, ‘ Oi’ll cut yer head off,’ only I 
forget. Then afterwards I remember. Do you do like 
that?” 

“Always.” 

The mother from the house-door called Bertha in to 
her lessons. But even when the child was gone the 
place still seemed to have a resemblance to the garden 
of Eden. It was so shut in, first by its own high quick- 
set hedge and then by the surrounding woods; it was 
so leafy, so aloof, so quiet, so begemmed with rain- 
drops, so besung by birds and so hallowed by innoc- 
ence. It was possible for one to imagine in a brief 
truce with reason, that on ward at that narrow garden 
gate was an angel, whose weapon had a friendly pro- 
tective aspect from within and only a fiery edge for the 
would-be entrance of perversity and pain. 

The next day was fine — but it was Sunday — and the 
next — but it was Monday, and still Beiley stayed on, 
making no engagement either to himself or his hostess 
save from day to day. Mrs. Houghton had procured 
him change of underclothing and engaged a man from 
the nearest village to come and shave him. He avoided 
the lordly park on which the front of the cottage looked, 
but he sometimes walked in the great plantations which 
surrounded it on every other side ; sometimes in the shred 
of open forest where he had found the stone-breaker, a 
square mile of heather and bracken, oak and thorn, 
bridled by roads but yet untamed. For the most part 
however he was content with the narrow compass of the 
garden or the stricter seclusion of his room. 

But on the following Saturday the world broke into 
that Eden, mounted on bicycles. The day was cloud- 
less, the roads perfect, the briar roses and hawthorn, 
the lime and mountain ash were in bloom; and more 
than that, there was an agricultural show somewhere in 
the neighbourhood. Mrs. Houghton was kept occupied 
from midday by a constant succession of visitors, some 
merely to swallow a draught of milk or lemonade and 
ride on, some to drink tea, but others for more solid 


CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 


67 


refection. Beiley gave up his room for their accom- 
modation and spent most of the afternoon in the quietest 
by-paths of the neighbouring woodlands. When he 
returned there was a motor-car standing by the gate 
besides some dozen bicycles leaning against the fence. 
Bertha came out to him as he stood hesitating to enter ,* 
there was perplexity on her face. 

“Mother's in trouble, Jack," she said. 

“ How so, Bertha? Lobster salad?" 

“ Worse, a deal worse. There are five motor people 
in your parlour, four bicycle people in my bedroom 
and seven all-sorts squeezed up in the arbour. And oh, 
Jack, oh. Jack, such appetites for ham and eggs ! And 
no bread left but just enough for you." 

She clasped her little hands piteously. 

Why not send to the baker's for more?" 

" It's at Sopworth, five miles off, and they wouldn't 
wait. Their eyes seem to be nibbling bits off me every 
time I go in. Do I look smaller?" 

“ Not noticeably, Bertha." 

Beiley felt the urgency of a strange, an heroic im- 
pulse; to his own astonishment. 

“ If the owner of this motor would lend it, I could 
go and fetch some in a very few minutes.*' 

Mrs. Houghton overheard and came to the door 
with the flush of an ashamed gratitude on her pale 
face. 

“This is my harvest-time, sir," she said; “and 
we’re sometimes compelled to be so unmannerly as to 
accept help without considering the propriety of doing 
so." 

The owner or perhaps the hirer of the car came out, 
a bustling blustering self-important person. He was 
stout but not tall, yet having possession of the door- 
step was able to look down on Lord Beiley. 

“What's this? Want to borrer my motor, young 
man ? What do you know about motors ?" 

“ Nothing but this : that I know how to steer one." 

“ How come you to know that?" 


68 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ I have had one or two of my own; I believe I have 
still.’’ 

“Believe? I don’t believe, I know. And I think 
if you’d one you’d know to it, and if you’d two you’d 
know more. My motor cost me five ’undred and fifty 
and it don’t go out of my sight and ’earing; not for 
Joseph !” 

“To oblige the lady of the house. She’s in a 
difficulty.’’ 

“The first person as a man’s under obligation to 
oblige is his own self. No, no, it won’t work.’’ 

“ Would it be too much trouble for you to come with 
me ?’’ 

“Thanks, no; I’m not in the habit of going a-shop- 
ping myself; I leave that to the gell.” 

Beiley took Bertha by the hand. 

“If this young lady is willing to accompany me? 
Would you accept that as security for my return?” 

“Nay, nay; the security may be good as fur as it 
goes, only there’s so little of it.” 

But even while the motorist spoke it occurred to him 
that his seriously-conceived dictum had near the surface, 
to be brought out with little hammering, the latent 
merits of a quip worthy of repetition over glass and 
pipe; he chuckled in anticipation and was softened. 
Whereupon a close-cropped bullet head overpeered his 
shoulder and a husky good-humoured voice issued 
therefrom : 

“ Let ’em go, Tom, without such a blooming pedigree. 
A fiver to a tanner he’s on the straight.” 

The motorist was in the main a good-natured fellow, 
so at last he said : 

“ Honour bright ?” 

“ Honour bright,” said Lord Beiley. 

“ What a blooming lawyer yer are, Tom !” said his 
friend behind. 

“ Well, don’t be long gone, for we’re ’ungry. And 
be sure and don’t turn the corners too stunt. And see 
as the little gell’s lapped up; for blow me, it’s a curious 


CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 69 

thing, riding them things, but the hotter yer get the 
colder yer feel.” 

Regardless of acts of Parliament and police regula- 
tions the motor-car whirled along, up and down, at thirty 
miles to the hour. The surface of the road was perfect. 
Woods bordered it on either hand, sometimes over- 
hanging, sometimes set back a little. The still air 
seemed to be in a hurricane; the hedges fled by like 
troops of panic-stricken shadows. Bertha, enwrapped 
all but her nose and eyes in her mother’s cloak, screwed 
up her eyelids so as to leave but the narrowest peep- 
hole; she gasped for breath, she paled, she shuddered, 
she hung on by her companion’s arm. In a few minutes 
they stopped at the grocery door. 

“Were you afraid?” asked Beiley. 

“Oh yes, just lovely afraid. I mean love-li-li-ly 
afraid. It was like dropping out of my bedroom window 
with the garden taken away and only the place left.” 

Soon they were on the return. 

“ Make the air angry again,” said Bertha. 

Again the engine throbbed, the wheels whirled, the 
shadowy trees rushed by, the dust lengthened out into 
a trailing cloud. Again Bertha was delightsomely 
affrighted, made the slit of her eyelids as narrow as a 
cat’s midday pupil, and nervously clutched Beiley by 
the sleeve. But she laughed gaspily when a proud 
bantam cockerel was resolved not to give them way; 
then suddenly, just in time, changed his mind with 
a shriek superlatively feminine. To Beiley also the 
drive had somewhat of the zest of an adventure. The 
hurry, the blast, the smell, the dust were not new to 
him ; but he had never before gone on an errand to the 
baker’s; he had sat beside many a pretty face, but never 
one so quick and candid in its changes. In a quarter of 
an hour from the start they had safely delivered to Mrs. 
Houghton a quartern of yesterday’s and four half- 
quarterns of to-day’s, besides a gammon of bacon and 
two shillingsworth of fresh eggs. 

“Oh, wasn’t the air angry?” said Bertha, before 


70 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


she had quite recovered breath. “ Not real angry, you 
know, or it wouldn’t have stopped as soon as we did. 
Quite angry people don’t, you knowj they go on. Do 
you know Mrs. Tomson?” 

“ I think not.” 

” Oh, you’d know if you did.” 

Meanwhile the man with the bullet head had made a 
small book of bets on the speed of the run, and was 
now calling in his winnings. The time-estimates of his 
friends had varied from a pessimist’s ” never no more ” 
to the owner or hirer’s would-be cool ” a hour at least ” 
and a red-faced man’s sanguinely-calculative “thirty 
one, five seconds.” 

“ I knowed,” said the prudently-speculative winner, 
putting his gains away with a business-like absence of 
elation. 

“ How could yer know?” said the pessimist. 

“Why shouldnH ’e know?” said the red-faced 
optimist. 

“ What did yer know?” said the owner or hirer. 

“ I seed as how this gent kep his lips neither slack 
nor stret, whilst you was giving him all the fool’s gab 
you was worth, Tom; which ain’t a little, lemme say. 
Now the man as can keep lew-warm whilst all around’s 
in a swelter or a frost is the chap to pile all yer money 
on, be’t for a hoss-race, a fight, a grinning match or a 
go-as-yer-please leg-o’-mutton ’andicap. jMind, I don’t 
admire them chaps as keeps frozzen in the blooming 
sunshine, as if they’d swallered a blooming refrigi- 
mator. No, a man wants to keep alius teepid; just 
anoo ’eat to slacken his elber-grease. Sir,” he said, 
looking round at Lord Beiley, “ I done very well by 
you.” He took out of his breast-pocket a spirit-flask 
silver-bedizened. “ May I offer you a drain?” 

“ If you would offer me a cup of your tea,” said 
Beiley, “ I should accept it with thanks.” 

The tea was immediately and heartily at his service, 
also the ham-sandwiches and bread-and-butter if he 
would accept of them. Yet his thirst and his amuse- 


CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 


71 


ment at the novel company did not move him to accept- 
ance more strongly than his perception without a word 
or a look from his hostess, that she felt regret and em- 
barrassment at his exclusion from his room. Which he 
himself was partly conscious of, with such vague un- 
easiness as visits a man when he first perceives some 
change, doubtfully good or bad, in the condition of his 
body. 

He satLy the window and sipped his tea. His enter- 
tainers’ conversation, seriously sportive for the most 
part, mixed with the loud hilarities of the party in the 
arbour; while before his eyes was the simple love- 
making of a pair of youthful sweethearts, who sat at a 
little round table under the open sky. They occupied 
separate though contiguous chairs, but ate from the 
same plate, drank from the same cup; Bertha flew to 
and fro bearing eatables and drinkables, and whenever 
she passed or repassed she glanced aside at his window 
and smiled. His attention was divided between the 
indoor talk about famous horses that were crocks and 
obscure horses that were morals and the lovers’ pretty 
pecking at the same morsel of seed cake, when the 
bullet-headed man addressed him directly : 

‘‘ Might I ask if you ever put a little on a boss, sir?” 

”I have done occasionally; but it didn’t amuse me 
when I won nor even when I lost, so I dropped it.” 

” Sir, you’ve just the temperment for a successful 
booky. Yer ought to go in for it as a profession; 
you’d make a good thing of it.” 

But the bullet-headed man’s insistence passed un- 
noticed, for the boy-lover against the girl’s laughing 
protests was essaying to sweeten the tea by stirring it 
with her ring-finger. The cyclists in the room above 
were quiet but for their repeated calls for hot water 
and bread-and-butter. The cyclists in the arbour had 
done eating and drinking and were playing rough 
practical jokes upon one another. 

The talk at the table glided from sport as a business 
to business, and especially the business of politics, as a 


72 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


sport. The odds against Jenkinson as a parliamentary 
candidate for the Rushcliffe division were mixed with 
the latest quotations for the Ascot meeting. The sun 
was low in the red west ; a little stirring of air came in 
by the window and tempered the closeness. The two 
lovers, trying to drink simultaneously from the finger- 
sweetened cup, spilt the tea down the lass’s frock. The 
young men in the arbour having ceased their horse-play 
were singing, a lusty unison with however one voice 
casually and uncertainly groping after the bass : 

“ My eyes are on your eyelids, 

My ears wait for you ; 

Down upon the daisies 
Look no longer, Loo. 

Nay, Loo, 

No more delay. Loo ; 

Daisies neither hear nor see. 

Look above. Loo ; 

Look where you love, Loo ; 

Speak to me ! ” 

But when the boy-lover joined in, the girl-lover feigned 
to be offended and pushed her chair three inches from 
his. Her name it would appear was not Loo. 

At length the motorists took their leave. The bullet- 
headed man’s last word was to offer Beiley a tip that 
was a moral for the Northumberland Plate. 

“Thank you,” said Beiley; “but I can’t promise 
to make use of it; the certainty would take away all my 
interest in the bet.” 

“ Don’t yer be afraid, if that’s all,” said the pessimist. 
“ The bigger the sartainty the bigger the lig. For why ? 
It ’olds more.” 

“ For my part,” said the optimist, “I’d sooner foller 
Billy’s lead than Sammy’s.” 

“Choice o’ poisons,” said the pessimist. “What 
the devil does it matter after y’ave bin landed, whether 
y’ave bin griped in yer bowels or burnt out of yer 
brains ?” 

“Nock,” said the bullet-headed man, “if I couldn’t 


CYCLISTS ACCOMMODATED 


73 


get more satisfaction out o’ the worst nor what you do 
out o’ the best, I’d present my friends with the pleasure 
o’ paying for my fun’ral.” 

“ It ud be a pleasure, no kid,” said the pessimist. 

But y’ave sucked me in once, Billy, just once.” 

” And why not more nor once. Nock?” said the 
bullet-headed man. ” I’ll tell yer why. Becos that 
once I sucked yer in so blooming thorough.” 

Having got the laugh on his side the bullet-headed 
man nodded to Beiley and went out. The rest of his 
party followed. The noisy bicyclists went off quietly 
and the quiet ones noisily. The lovers were the last to 
go in the diminishing daylight. He filched a sprig of 
lad’s-love from the garden and pinned it on her blouse 
just over where her heart fluttered. 


CHAPTER VIII 


GARDEN AND SWORD 

To the bustle of Saturday the quietude of the succeed- 
ing day was in complete contrast. Beiley spent the 
morning in the garden and thought it more like Eden 
than ever; but the intermittent thrusts of recollection 
did not allow him to imagine himself the Adam to that 
Eden. Bertha went in and out and around but wdth 
a somewhat sedater tread than usual. She was in her 
Sunday dress, a white washing frock rather short in 
the skirt, white shoes and stockings, white ribbon to 
her hair, the beauty of all which lay in their perfect 
purity. 

‘‘ We don’t wear black clothes on Sundays,” she 
said; ” mother doesn’t think it right. They put father 
in the ground, but they couldn’t keep him there; he’s 
an angel now, and the grave where he was is all grown 
over with sweet-williams — father’s name was William — 
sweet-williams of all colours. Do you think the angels 
sowed them ?” 

” What do you think?” said Beiley, for the first 
time in his life deeming a little child’s fancies of more 
importance than his own clever conclusions. 

” I think they did; because he’d know it would please 
mother. And angels of course can get seeds for 
nothing.” 

” Where do they get them from ?” 

” Out of the gardens in heaven. Anybody can pull 
the flowers there; whole handfuls; little children too. 
They’re not like the Duke’s gardens; there are not 

74 


GARDEN AND SWORD 


75 

so many gardeners but more flowers, specially sweet- 
smelling flowers.’* 

“ How do you know there aren’t so many gardeners ?” 

“ Because there aren’t any weeds. Oh, I’ve thought 
about it since father went there. But now I’ve got to 
learn the collect for the day.” 

So she tripped into the house for her Prayer-book, 
and conned her task as they paced the garden walk with 
her eyes partly on the print and partly on the flowers. 
Beiley had to explain to her the meaning of ” mortal 
nature,” first putting back his feelings and under- 
standing some twenty vain years. 

“It’s what we are,” he said, “before we become 
angels.” 

“ Then father hasn’t ‘ the weakness of our mortal 
nature ’ ?” 

“No.” 

“ I’ll run and tell mother that; p’raps it will make her 
not cry.” 

She ran in and presently returned with an expression 
of incomplete satisfaction. 

“ I told her. I said, ‘ Jack says so, and he’s a man.’ 
She kissed me, but she was busy; I couldn’t see her 
face.” 

Soon she put the book in his hand and he heard her 
repeat her task; perfectly except that she said “ help of 
thy face” instead of ‘‘thy grace.” 

“ I think I like mine best. Faces do help, you know. 
Yours helps to say collects, and mother’s helps to learn 
history and wash dishes; and I think God’s would. 
‘ Grant us the help of Thy grace.’ What does ‘ grace ’ 
mean ?” 

“ Favour.” 

“It would be nice to be God’s favourite, wouldn’t 
it? He could let us off such a lot of things.” 

“ What should you like to be let off ?” 

“ Beetles, and bicyclists, and bad temper, and wet 
weather, and ” — her little face took a graver cast — 
“and black clothes.” 


76 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

She repeated the prayer to him and quite correctly. 

“ Now I must go back to mother. She has got 
nobody but me, you see; and Tve got nobody but her 
and dolly. Dolly’s asleep all to-day. She hasn’t a 
very strong contistution and needs a great deal of rest. 
But as I tell mother, she’ll grow out of it.” 

After luncheon she spoke to him through the window 
as he sat smoking a cigar. 

” Aren’t you going to church, Jack?” 

” I’ll go if you’ll take me.” 

“ Oh, I always take mother, you see; it’s a long way 
and she needs so much ’tention.” 

But she did not go; she stood viewing him, taking 
him in with her serious blue eyes; then said very 
deliberately : 

“ If you’d walk on the other side and not talk more 
than fair shares, p’raps I could manage both of you.” 

” But perhaps your mother would object to that 
arrangement, and besides I haven’t a change of dress.” 

In a little while Bertha was at the window again. 

” Mother will be very glad of your company. Jack, 
and the dress doesn’t matter in the least. Does dress 
matter where you live?” 

” More than anything.” 

” It doesn’t here. For last Sunday Mr. Pirrie said 
the only adornament necessary was a putrified heart. 
Haven’t you got putrified hearts?” 

” Not in the sense Mr. Pirrie meant it.” 

” We have. But we wear our best dresses too.” 

The little child walked between her companions. In 
appearance they chiefly were supporting her. Beiley 
held one of her hands and listened to her prattle, but 
did not talk more than fair shares; hardly so much. 
The widow held the other tiny hand and the disfigure- 
ment of secret tears dried off her face. Fair was the 
day, fair the tree-bordered road. Trees were every- 
where in their spring garniture. The rising ground on 
their right was decked with wood ; on their left were the 
waters, rush-lined, in long succession, of an up-dammed 


GARDEN AND SWORD 


77 


stream, and beyond them the spacious lawns, the thick 
plantations of the park. It was quite a mile and a half 
to the church, but the way did not seem long even in 
the afternoon heat. During the latter part of it the 
woods receded. 

The dozen scattered farm-houses and cottages and 
the humble little stuccoed church were in restful dispro- 
portion to the magnificent ducality of the surrounding 
properties. The bell was bobbing in the belfry as they 
walked up. Bertha made her friend note the dial set 
in the corner of the western gable over the porch. 

“That’s the time in heaven; it isn’t quite the same 
as the time on earth; and they don’t have any night- 
time there, do they?” 

“No.” 

“ But mother always sets her watch by it, because it’s 
father’s time.” 

As they entered the lowly porch the little maid 
twitched his sleeve to bespeak his attention, put herself 
up a-tiptoe and whispered : 

“ The weakness of what nature?” 

“Our mortal nature.” 

A tiny church as unadorned within as without; un- 
less indeed there be reckoned among church decorations 
the devout attention of the scanty congregation ; two or 
three farmers, their wives, sons and daughters, two or 
three sunburnt labourers with their families, one or two 
aged men and women, unaccompanied; the whole thinly 
distributed among a score of narrow pews divided by 
a little aisle. When the rest of the congregation said 
Beiley did not say, and when they sang he did not sing, 
but he ever heard Bertha’s bird-like voice saying or 
singing. He expected her collect, in which she did 
not forget “the weakness of our mortal nature”; he 
had not taken so personal an interest in any religious 
service so long as he could remember. The sunlight 
streaming through the narrow window made Bertha’s 
hair and the clasps of the big Bible gleam. 

Mrs, Houghton lagged after the benediction, so that 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


78 

they were the last of the little congregation to leave the 
church. She went aside from the path towards a quiet 
corner of the churchyard behind the church. 

“ We always go there after church,” said Bertha. 
” He*s not there; we go to look at the sweet-williams.” 

” ril go on a little way,” said Beiley, ‘‘and wait for 
you in the lane.” 

“ Don’t you like sweet-williams?” 

“ Yes, but not so much as you and your mother do.” 

“ Uncle George wanted us to go and live in London, 
but of course we couldn’t go and leave Ned Smith to 
look after them.” 

Then she went to join her mother behind the church, 
while Beiley walked on. 

In the evening he sat in the arbour reading a local 
newspaper which one of the motorists had left behind. 
The sun, having made his peace with both earth and 
sky, was sinking behind the trees. In the house Bertha 
and her mother were singing their last hymn, the thin 
childish treble sustained not overpowered by the fuller 
voice. 

“ Night is come and gone is day, 

Work is done and done is play ; 

In their nest 
Linnets rest. 

God made night before the day.” 

The simple words and melody, the larger natural in- 
fluences were more inward to his thoughts than the 
frivolous letterpress with which they feigned to be 
occupied. The shadows lurked under the trees waiting 
to come forth. 

Instead of sun there’s many a star ; 

Where the trees were shadows are ; 

By his dam 
Sleeps the lamb. 

Day from night goes never far.” 

Why should he with the stupidity of habit return to 
his old dissatisfactions? Why should he not remain 
there always within the purlieus of that Eden, the com- 


GARDEN AND SWORD 


79 


panion if not the intimate of purity, piety and content? 
Where could he find a sweeter solace for his habitual 
weariness, a kinder concealment for his new disgrace? 
Such longings whispered not unheard even under the 
blatant insistence of sensational head-line, capitals, 
trebled note of exclamation and leaded type. Peeping 
and advancing, retreating and returning the shadows 
came from under the trees, stole between the flowers 
and along the grass. 

“ My hymn is sung, my prayer is said, 

White the sheets are on my bed. 

Mother may 
No longer stay ; 

She’ll leave an angel in her stead.” 

But even in the interval between the last prolonged 
monosyllable and the brief last but one his mind had 
become fixed as exclusively as his eyes upon the common 
news-sheet. The coy shadows, the hushed voice of 
bird and child, the overarching peace, were no closer 
to him then than they might be, as a poignant recollec- 
tion, on the morrow, next year, in any number of years. 
For this is what had caught his eye : 

‘‘LORD BEILEY’S DISAPPEARANCE 

“ It has transpired, that Lord Beiley has been seen 
and addressed in the Borough of Fordham, by a member 
of the Local Police Force. Immediately thereafter he 
took leave of the town in a hansom cab, in the direction 
of Sherwood, and has been traced as far as Mansfield. 
A thorough search for his missing lordship has been 
directed to be made, by his family, in the whole vicinity. 
It is suggested, that his mental fabric has become un- 
hinged, but from what cause remains to be ascertainedc 
It is certain that, of late, he has consistently been in a 
very dejected, not to say morose, frame of mind; and 
it is well known that one of his great-uncles developed 
an exaggerated altruism, amounting to something more 
than eccentricity.** 


CHAPTER IX 


THE FAMILY DISAGREEMENT 

Next morning Beiley told Mrs. Houghton that to his 
regret he found himself compelled to leave immediately 
after breakfast. Bertha wept freely. 

“ If you’ll stop, Jack, you shall have lobster salad, 
you shall have it every day but Sundays.” 

“ I don’t want lobster salad, and I should like to stop, 
but I can’t, Bertha.” 

“Why? You’re grown up, aren’t you? Oh yes; 
not such a big grown-up as Tom Webster, but quite 
grown up.” 

“ Grown-ups, Bertha, have more things and stronger 
things forcing them to do what they don’t want than 
children have.” 

“Then why do they get grown up? So they can 
reach things off .shelves?” 

“ Because they can’t help it.” 

“ P’raps they don’t try not to soon enough. Pve 
always wanted to be grown up; then I needn’t always 
say ‘ please.’ I should say ‘ please,’ you know, but not 
always; just for a rest, in hot weather. And I should 
like being cross sometimes without being naughty ; that 
must be very nice. But — are you sure. Jack? Mother 
needn’t stop indoors when the sun shines. She does, 
you know, but she isn’t made to.” 

“ Oh yes, she is made to.” 

“Who makes her?” 

“ You’d better ask her.” 

The little one ran out to the kitchen; and presently 
returned with a still more dejected mien. 

8o 


THE FAMILY DISAGREEMENT 


8i 


“She says nessity makes her. I’d sooner be made 
by mother than nessity. I can sometimes beg off a bit 
from her; when I’m on her knee I can sometimes whisper 
in her ‘ yes ’ ear, so that her ‘ no ’ ear can’t hear. But 
I don’t know nessity; I shouldn’t know where to go; 
I shouldn’t know what to say. I’ll stop a little girl and 
always learn history and common objects.” 

During this psychological discussion Bertha’s tears 
had dried, but they fell anew when her friend finally 
took his leave. For a keepsake she put on his little 
finger a ring of blue beads threaded by herself on horse- 
hair; he took off his ruby ring and hung it on her 
thumb. Again and again he promised to return. She 
gave him one parting kiss and twenty more. She 
finished her cry on her mother’s knee. 

Only an hour or two later Mrs. Houghton had a 
visitor, a middle-aged gentleman in tall hat, black coat, 
yellow kid gloves. He was driven to the door from the 
direction of Mansfield in a hired fly, and had manners at 
once business-like and urbane. He asked to speak with 
her in private and was at once admitted to the little parlour. 

“You have a gentleman lodging with you, Mrs. 
Houghton, I am given to understand.” 

“ I had, sir, but he has left.” 

“When did he leave?” 

Mrs. Houghton hesitated. 

“ Before I answer, sir — excuse me — I should like to 
be assured that I’m speaking to friendly ears.” 

“ A perfectly proper stipulation. If any one may 
claim to be a friend of the gentleman in question I 
may; I am his agent and solicitor.” 

“ He left only an hour and a half ago.” 

“ In what direction did he depart?” 

“ I cannot say.” 

“ Do you know anybody to whom I could apply for 
the information?” 

“ My little daughter — but there was an unusual con- 
fidence, even an affection, between the gentleman and 

her, sir, and ” 

6 


82 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ I beg you, Mrs. Houghton, not to hesitate to give 
me all the assistance in your power. I will earn your 
confidence by confiding in you. My inquiries concern 
the honour of a noble family and the welfare of my 
client himself.” 

Bertha was brought in, pale and shy, and the question 
was put to her. 

” Did you notice, dear, what way Mr. Jack went 
after he left you ? He desired her to call him Jack, 
sir.” 

The little maid looked at her mother inquiringly, 
looked at the strange gloved gentleman uneasily, looked 
at the floor doubtfully, then at her mother again ex- 
pectantly. 

“Would Jack want me to tell, mother?” 

“ I can’t say, dear. This gentleman must answer 
you.” 

“Certainly, little one; certainly, Mrs. , Houghton. 
Be assured that I am furthering his best interests in 
these inquiries I am making.” 

“ Kindly answer the child’s question like a child. 
Would he want her to tell?” 

“You can readily understand, I am sure, that a 
person’s desires may so conflict with his best interests, 
that his friends may be in duty bound to do honourable 
violence to them.” 

“ Quite so, sir, but I can hardly presume to be so 
friendly with the gentleman as to take so much upon 
me. 

The lawyer turned his attention to the child, but so 
that he could also watch the effect of his words upon 
the mother. 

“Listen to me, little one. If you saw your friend 
Mr. Jack doing himself some harm — cutting himself 
with a knife, say — wouldn’t you try to stop him?” 

“ He wouldn’t,” answered Bertha with a shy de- 
cision ; “ he’d be afraid of frightening me; he’d be very 
careful not to frighten a little girl.” 

“ But if he didn’t know that you saw him ?” 


THE FAMILY DISAGREEMENT 83 

“He’d know I shouldn’t be far off. I never was 
very far off.” 

Her eyes filled again at the recollection of her loss. 

“ But you are a long way off now, and out of sight.” 
The tears that were brimming fell. “Won’t you, if 
you possibly can, try to save your friend Mr. Jack from 
hurting himself?” 

“ Is Jack going to cut himself?” 

“ Not precisely.” 

“ What is he going to do?” 

“ Irretrievably damage his reputation. I’m afraid.” 

Bertha looked her body over, little arms, slim trunk, 
slender legs, but finding no part or member answering 
to the name of “ reputation,” said : 

“ Does it hurt much?” 

“It hurts worse than anything to a well-constituted 
mind.” 

“ Has Jack got a well-contistuted mind?” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Do you hope it’ll hurt him ?” 

“ For his ultimate advantage.” 

The child looked at him doubtfully, unconvinced yet 
alarmed. 

“Sir,” said Mrs. Houghton, “the child doesn’t 
understand. You wish her to understand, don’t you?” 

Two pairs of candid questioning eyes were levelled 
at the man of business; one blue and just at the height 
of his own as he sat on the low chair assailed him with 
a terrible directness; the other grey from an altitude 
of some two feet galled him sorely with a dropping fire 
of gentle reproach. He acknowledged to himself that 
his position was untenable, and sounded the retreat to 
his wiles. 

“Certainly I wish her to understand me. I just 
mean this, little one, that we friends of Mr. Jack desire 
to stop him from doing something that will make people 
think ill of him.” 

“ Will people think ill of him?” 

“ Everybody will.” 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


84 

The little one, lifting one small hand as high as her 
head, made outbreak of an impetuosity hitherto latent. 

“ No, everybody won’t. For I won’t. Never. And 
when Jack comes back I’ll tell him. Before he comes 
back I’ll write and tell him.” 

The gentleman rose, as though acknowledging defeat. 
But as he did so his eyes caught the gleam of the ring 
on Bertha’s thumb. 

” What is that, pray?” he said. 

‘‘ Jack gave it to me,” said the little one. 

“ May I see it, young lady?” 

She put it in his hand. 

” Undoubtedly the property of my noble client. A 
ruby of the value of seven hundred and fifty pounds. 
If you will allow me, madam, I should advise you to 
take care of it until your daughter is of an age to 
appreciate it.” 

Mrs. Houghton seemed disturbed, even distressed. 

” Oh no, sir ! If it is so valuable I shall be obliged 
if you will take charge of it yourself, and return it to 
the too generous giver.” 

Since Mrs. Houghton withheld her hand he put the 
ring on the table. 

” I can’t do that. I should be exceeding my duty 
and should unforgivably offend my client, if I were to 
offer to resume his gift.” 

And so he took his leave. 

The same evening a family council was hurriedly 
called at a Nottingham hotel ; the Honourable George 
Beiley and Lord Cheddar, uncles on the paternal and 
maternal sides respectively. Cousin Gerald, next to the 
title. Cousin Victor, Aunt Adorn and Lady Sally. Lord 
Hexgrove declined to be interested, his mood being that 
of undivided anger, unmitigated even by his wife’s 
querulousness. 

“ If it were necessary to find him in order to cut him 
for ever,” he said, “ I could understand the use of this 
meeting; but I don’t see that it is.” 


THE FAMILY DISAGREEMENT 85 

But the Countess during a breakfast-table exhibition 
of lachrymose fortitude had insisted on giving her 
daughter the support of her company. Indeed it was 
her belief that Lady Sally’s resolution had all along been 
but a by-product of her own. At the hotel however 
she succumbed easily and immediately to an attack of 
gentle hysteria; so Lady Sally after giving her due 
attention left her with her maid and faced the gathering 
alone. Mr. Fasson the solicitor explained at large 
how matters stood ; briefly, in a state of failure so near 
success as to have the colour of it without the shape. 
Said Lady Sally : 

“I don’t understand quite what you’re going to do 
with Lord Beiley when you’ve run him down. I hope 
I’ve got the right word.” 

” Say ‘ found him,’ my lady, if you please.” 

“ Found? Are you quite sure he’s lost? However, 
when found, what then ? Are you going to put him 
in a cage?” 

“Argue with him, my lady, try and bring him to a 
reasonable frame of mind.” 

“Suppose they’re too wide apart and won’t either 
of them give. He, we know, is as obstinate as a door- 
post; and from its name I should conclude that your 
reasonable frame is wooden and a fixture.” 

“ We must trust in the force of reason and moral 
suasion.” 

“ Which is as good as confessing we’ve nothing else 
left to trust in. I take it for granted, Mr. Fasson, you’re 
a dab at moral suasion, you seem to have morally per- 
suaded yourself; but don’t you think that you might 
just as well save yourself so much locomotion, which 
doesn’t suit your sedentary habits, and sit here and 
reason with this table?” 

“ Your ladyship counsels us to give up hope?” 

“ Don’t you think it would save your legs?” 

“I’d lock him up as a lunatic,” said Aunt Adorn 
emphatically. 

“ I agree with Aunt Adorn,” said Cousin Gerald. 


86 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


Said Lady Sally, “ It’ll be quite easy when you’ve 
brought him to your way of thinking.” 

‘‘What better evidence do we require,” said Uncle 
George, who was portly and exuberant, “ than his 
abandoning such a property and such a bride?” 

“I make my bow,” said Lady Sally, “for the joint 
compliment, though mine appears to be the hinder end 
of it.” 

“Do you believe in heredity, uncle?” said Cousin 
Victor. 

“ Our clubs will,” said Uncle Cheddar, who was small 
and concise of speech. 

“ It appears to me,” said Uncle George, “ that we’ve 
no choice. Or rather that we’ve the choice between 
lunacy and something worse.” 

“If we take the one,” said Uncle Cheddar, “we 
may have the other given us; then we shall have both.” 

“ I wonder what the police are doing,” said Aunt 
Adorn. 

“ It’s a police affair to be a wandering lunatic, isn’t 
it?” said Cousin Gerald. 

“ Jerry,” said Lady Sally, “ there’s only one lunatic in 
a family at once.” 

“A fact, Sally? But that would make them rather 
noticeable.” 

“ They are, only they don’t notice it themselves. 
Anyhow, there’s one thing I’ve remarked about 
lunatics ” 

“You’ve studied them, Sally?” said Cousin Gerald. 

“ I have, Jerry. It’s this : you can never prove them 
to be lunatics without their own consent. And I don’t 
reckon Jack will consent. Do any of you?” 

There w^as silence round the table, as each put in 
mental balance the imponderability of hope against the 
elusiveness of forecast. 

“ Anyhow, even if he does I don’t. If you take pro- 
ceedings in lunacy, understand that I appear as a wit- 
ness in his favour. I’m not going to pity him. I’m 
going to pay him out. So, Mr. Fasson, I don’t see 


THE FAMILY DISAGREEMENT 87 

why you shouldn’t go straight back to town, where you 
can spare your own legs and tire cab-horses’.” 

Whence it may be gathered that from a mere butterfly 
of a girl Lady Sally was developing into a woman with 
a purpose and a temper. It was understood that she 
was hoarding resentment against the inevitable day of 
her again meeting Lord Beiley. When asked why she 
continued wearing her engagement ring she answered : 

“ So that I may have it always at hand.” 

Which could only be taken to mean that she would 
not be satisfied unless she gave it back as she had 
received it, face to face and palm to palm. 

Her explanation of the delay in the return of the wed- 
ding presents as plainly indicated a determination not to 
accept the part of the jilted one: 

” I shall wait until I am able to say, ‘ Broken off by 
mutual consent.’ ” 


CHAPTER X 


THE WASH-PIT 

Lord Beiley was sorry to part with his little friend. 
Still after he had weaved his handkerchief back at her 
for the last time and the turn of the road hid her black 
frock and white hand, he again enjoyed the savour of 
complete freedom, the pleasure of taking his way without 
the irksomeness of consent or the labour of premedita- 
tion, of walking in the shine or the shade without even 
the obstruction of a sentiment, the formality of a choice. 
Out of the mere instinct of concealment he entered the 
planting that almost surrounded the house, and he 
followed the first path that offered, a carriage drive 
trimly kept like every other in that great domain. The 
sun shone; every now and then there was the flash of 
white from the scut of a rabbit which ran across from 
covert to covert; and there was woodland scenery as 
far as the eye could reach. He came to a lodge, but 
the gate was wide open, nothing was about but a hen 
with a clatch of pheasants, and he passed on. 

He walked yet an hour through the pleasant wood- 
lands before he again reached the road, a hard white 
road, but always overhung on one side or both by the 
abundant woods. The sun was approaching noon when 
he came where a bridge carried the road over a brook. 
By the road-side there was a wash-pit in which three 
men and a boy were washing a flock of sheep. The 
parapet of the bridge being overhung by a tall ash-tree 
offered both rest and shade. He made no difficulty 
about accepting the offer; he sat down, lighted a cigar 

88 


THE WASH-PIT 


89 


and looked on. The nearest of the men — his hands 
were idle for the moment — just said ‘‘ Mornin’, fine 
mornin’/’ the others hardly lifted their eyebrows at 
him. Indeed they were fully occupied. The boy kept 
the gate of the pen in which were huddled together 
unwashed ewes and baaing lambs. One by one the 
dams were caught by a lusty labourer, hustled out and 
tossed over the brink into the pit. Fain would she have 
swum into safety had she known where it lay ; but again 
and again she was thrust under by the second labourer 
with a poise, a long wooden shaft headed with a curved 
cross-piece. So drowning and struggling she was 
pushed into the hands of the last of the three, who stood 
on the edge and turning her about rubbed her well over; 
then with a friendly shove started her off in the proper 
direction, and left her to stagger heavily up the sloping 
outlet and so to the grassy bank; where stood her 
washed sisters calling for their lambs, while the water 
streamed from their fleeces. 

Loud was the outcry of sundered mothers and babes; 
the dog barked, the boy whistled, the men shouted and 
swore, the water gushed and gurgled at the sluice. The 
willows and alders that bordered the brook made alter- 
nation of changeful gleam and shade along its winding 
course. On the other side of the bridge the waters 
were gathered by a weir into a lake but just visible 
amid the thick trees. Between gushing weir and bridge 
lay a still pool set in a green meadow, and on it a pair 
of white swans floated; beyond a slender church spire 
overpeered the trees. 

Soon the washing, well advanced at Beiley’s arrival, 
was completed. The up-penned lambs were released; 
but timid and slow was their recognition of their dank 
parents, baa these as they might, loud and fussily. 
Then while the superabundant moisture still drained 
from their fleeces, the men put on their coats, fetched 
from under the hedge their baskets of mat or wicker- 
work, with a brief nod or a gruff word made the new- 
comer of their fellowship, sat down on the bridge with 


90 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


their broad backs to the parapet and only their cobbled 
boots in the sun, and ate their midday meal, bread and 
fat bacon or mutton, bread and strong cheese, talking 
at first charily, then more freely of the differences of 
like things, the similarities of different things. The dog 
sat facing them with eyes which, apparently unex- 
pectant, were alert to every morsel of bacon rind or 
bread crust that was chucked his way. 

“How often do you wash your sheep like this?’’ 
said Beiley. 

The old man said nothing. 

“This moot be some tailor,” muttered between his 
broken teeth the middle-aged man, who was short and 
broad and gruff. 

“Not above iv’ry two or three weeks,” said the 
youngest man, lanky, talkative and would-be funny. 

The boy, puny, tanned and restless, stood and ate 
with a hunch of bread in one hand and in the other a 
stone, which he was ever aiming at a bird and ever 
renewing from a heap of road ballast. 

“Why,” he piped, “don’t yer know that? We 
nubbut wesh ’em once a year. Often anoo too. I 
shouldn’t care if I w^arn’t niver weshed at all. Thesen’s 
Mester Good’n’s ship. Good ship an’ all. That were 
a bum-barrel as I just hulled at. ’Twere a fine miss an’ 
all.” 

“ If yer don’t stosh yer gab,” said the middle-aged 
man with an authority evidently parental, “ I’ll wring 
yer neck for yer.” 

“This ale o’ Carter’s een’t worth noat,” said the 
youngest man. 

“Is yourn Carter’s?” said the middle-aged man. 
“ I wouldn’t find it.” 

“ I on’y drink it becos I want the bottle for to put 
pig medicine in.” 

“ There een’t no good beer now-a-days,” said the old 
man. 

“ The man at ihe Crown,” said the lad, “ is a-gooin’ 
to flit. M’appen the new man’ll brew hissen. Yer 


THE WASH-PIT 


91 


can’t mek good beer be-out plenty o’ good malt an’ 
hops; nubbudy can’t. My hiney ! I welly-nigh het 
that theer cock-spink.” 

“ Ho’d yer row,” said the middle-aged man, ” or 
I’ll gie yer a good esh-plantin’.” 

There was a short space of slow reflective chewing 
until the youngest man said again ; 

” There’s a unaccountable poor market for wool.” 

“There is that,” said the old man; “there een’t no 
market for noat now-a-days.” 

“ But I don’t find as Tailor Matterson charges ac- 
cordinglye for wer cooats.” 

“ ’Teen’t jonnock,” ^ said the middle-aged man. 

“ M’appen there een’t no wool in ’em,” said the 
youngest. “ That ud explain it satisfactory.” 

“ ’S like as not,” said the middle-aged man. 

“Funny, een’t it? If a thing wants to be o’ wool 
they ’dulterate it wi’ summat else, an’ if a thing wants 
to be o’ summat else they ’dulterate it wi’ wool.” 

“ The stores has bin copped,” said the boy, “ ’dulter- 
atin’ Farmer Wes’wood’s butter wi’ Farmer ’Ill’s. 
There’s to be a pollicution. Yo can’t be summonsed 
if yo tell ’em it’s ’dulterated. Eggs can’t be ’dulter- 
ated on’y wi’ chickens. A tanner I knock that theer 
blue-cap ower. Oooh ! by gosh ! ’tworn’t that off’n 
it!” 

“ If yer don’t goo soomwheer else an’ hull stuns,” 
said the middle-aged, “ I’ll kill yer dead.” 

The eating was finished except on the part of the 
boy, who holding a chunk of bread in one hand and 
a stone in the other still bit and threw. The youngest 
man was poring over the shred of an illustrated paper 
in which his dinner had been wrapped. 

“What’s this ’ere russiprussity as they talk on so 
much?” said the oldest. 

“ It een’t russiprussity, it’s rissipossity,” said the 
youngest without lifting his eyes. 

“Well, what is’t?” 


^ Fair. 


92 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ Yo wouldn’t unnerstan’, Sim, if I to’d yer from 
now till Sat’d’y, an’ who’d pay me for th’ toime ?” 

“ By what I can mek out,” said the middle-aged, 
“ it’s the same as that theer fizzle policy o’ Joey’s.” 

” An’ what’s his fizzle policy, Nat?” 

“ It’s a clever fetch o’ hisn for to prevent the Jarmans 
from sellin’ uz what we don’t want to buy.” 

” It shouldn’t tek a very lam’d man to do that.” 

“ Don’t yo mek no mistake,” said Dick, just looking 
up and looking down again. 

The heat increased. The men leant more heavily 
back against the bridge, they fell into silence, their 
outlook became contemplative. The old man went 
fairly off to sleep; the middle-aged nodded and re- 
covered himself and nodded again. The dog lay at 
full length in the midst of the road, but still with a half- 
open eye upon the ewes and lambs, which had spread 
themselves grazing along the grassy margin. The 
shade had stealthily travelled away from where Beiley 
sat; but he sat on in the sun ever persuading himself 
that he was about to rise. The boy was at a distance 
“wracking” with a stick a green-linnet’s nest which 
he could not reach with his hands ; Dick was still 
poring drowsily over his scrap of newspaper. After 
a while he said in a voice which breaking the long 
silence seemed sudden and loud : 

“ They hain’t nabbed Vizcount Bailey yit, an’ it’s my 
opinion as they wain’t niver.” 

The old man slept on, the middle-aged yawned, the 
peer said : 

“Why do you think so?” 

“ He’d a bin catched afore now if ’e’d meant to be 
catched.” 

“ I’m telled,” said Nat, “as there’s a hunderd pound 
reward for foindin’ on ’im, aloive or dead.” 

“Indeed?” said Beiley. “And which do they 
prefer?” 

“ Dead, I should say,” said Dick. “ It moot be a 
sight o’ trouble tentin’ them quallity mad folk; they 


THE WASH-PIT 


93 


moan’t be banged an’ bossed, an’ they wain’t be led 
or said. Any kind o’ corp moot be better nor sich a 
live un as him.” 

The old man awoke with a loud snort; the boy drew 
near. 

“What sort lookin’ man is ’e?” asked Nat. 

“Five foot eight in height-th,” said Dick, spelling 
out as well as he could a description from the sheet 
under his eyes. 

“ That sounds loike a quite iv’ry-day sort o’ person.” 

“ Ay, ’e wouldn’t be mooch to look at any’ow.” 

“Some lords,” said the boy looking round for a 
mark for his next stone, “ is nubbut quite little uns.” 
He aimed and missed. “ Golly ! if that had het ’im ! 
I reckon it’s when they’re made lords on after they’re 
growed up.” 

Beiley slid from the parapet to his feet. The boy 
turned his sharp restless eyes on him. 

“ Hae yo iver seed ’im, mester?” he said. 

“Yes. Good-morning.” 

Beiley walked gently up the road towards the sun. 

The boy looked after him and suddenly shouted out : 

“ Mester ! Be yo ’im yersen?” 

Beiley did not answer but walked steadily away. 

“If ’im bain’t ’im,” said the boy, “I’ll be cry- 
meated. I didn’t try mooch, that hull, ’cos ’twere a 
robin.” 

“ I’ll leather yer when I ger up,” said his father, 
“ for talkin’ so foolish.” 

“ Why d’ yer think it’s ’im, Lenny?” said Dick 

The boy threw his stone deliberately at nothing in 
particular, hit it, and answered : 

“ ’Cos ’e’s gor a blew an’ white necktie on same as 
what it says i’ th’ paper.” He pointed to the scrap 
of printed paper which lay on the ground. “Teddy 
White’s new necktie’s blew, not blew an’ white; I seed 
it ” 

“ That theer hunderd pound’s mine,” said the middle- 
aged; “ my lad fun’ ’im out.” 


94 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


With heavy activity he rose to his feet. 

“ ’Twere my paper/’ said his junior, who starting 
later was on his feet as soon. 

“What’s the paper got to do wee’t?’’ 

“ What’s your lad got to do wee’t?” 

The old man came up too, saying : 

“ It belungs all on’s, we’re all in co for’t, by raison 
an’ by natur.” 

“If yo stop an’ faight now, fayther,” said the boy, 
“the mester ull mizzle.” 

Thick-head that he was the father saw the force of 
the reasoning, and turned his ireful face from opposi- 
tion to his comrade. Both ran in pursuit. The boy 
followed, the old man came last; the dog seeing the 
prevalent excitement rushed ahead barking; then 
stopped and looked back with a what-can-I-do-for-you 
expression, as if distracted between imaginations of 
rats, stray sheep, hostile dogs and felonious strangers. 
At which and the loud holloaing of the men Beiley 
turned, as the lighter man got within arm’s length. 
But before he had spoken his rival was level with him, 
so much had greed stood him instead of agility. 

“Who be yer?” 

“ Be yer Lord Bailey?” 

As their utterances were simultaneous, so his answer 
was joint. 

“ I decline to answer.” 

The quietude of his speech and bearing abashed 
them ; they stood not knowing what to do except damn 
the dog for barking; until presently the old man 
arrived and thrust breathlessly into the conference. 

“ We mun tek ’im to the pinfo’d,” he gasped. 

The boy aimed his stone before he aimed his retort. 

“He’d ger out; like a scoperell.^ Fayther, tek ’im 
to the pleeceman.” 

Straightway the father’s heavy hand was on the 
peer’s right shoulder. 

“ Yo mun coom wi’ me.” 

^ A teetotum ; used as an example of agility. 


THE WASH-PIT 95 

As quick was Dick to hook himself to the peer’s left 
arm. 

‘‘An’ wi’ me.” 

“ An’ me an’ all,” squeaked the oldster behind, taking 
an eager trembling hold of Beiley’s belt. “ I may^ a 
third.” 

“How can yer?” said the youngest. “ Bain’t yer 
on th’ parish?” 

“That shan’t stan’ in th’ road; I’ll goo off the 
parish.” 

“ Oad Sim Wood’us,” said Nat, clenching his fist 
and gathering his brows, “ if yer doan’t tek yer damned 
wezzened oad hand off’n ’im I’ll bash yer oad brains 
out for to muck the ground wee.” 

Old Sim Woodhouse shrank back but a very little, 
so nearly did greed balance fear. 

“ Dick Pres’on, the man’s mine; let ’im goo.” 

“ I wain’t,” said Dick Preston with a rising choleric 
redness. “ M’appen, Nat Ragdale, yo think yo’re head 
Sir Rag?” 

The two began to threaten and curse, hustle and 
haul. 

“ Listen to me, you two dunderheads,” said Lord 
Beiley; and perforce they listened. “ I don’t particul- 
arly object to going to the police-station with you, 
since you think well to take that urchin’s advice; but 
understand that I’m not obliged to go and that I go 
in my own way or not at all. Remove your hand.” 
Dick’s hand was off even while he meditated refusal. 
“And yours.” Nat Ragdale’s grasp was loosened al- 
most before he spoke. “ Now then ! Do you wish to 
go?” 

“ Ay,” said Dick. 

“Of coorse I do,” said Nat. 

“We agree to that,” said Sim Woodhouse. 

“ Then keep that dog quiet and lead the way.” 

Boy and dog were left in charge of the sheep; the 
others moved towards the neighbouring village, Beiley 
^ Make. 


gS 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


in the middle, Nat still on his right, Dick on his left, 
while the old man trotted totteringly in the rear, so 
close that every now and then his pauper toe caught 
the right honourable heel. The rustics eyed one another 
as curs might which have yet to settle by justice of com- 
bat the rightful ownership of a meaty bone. When Dick 
sidled an inch nearer to their captive’s elbow than Nat 
deemed necessary, his wrath was fierce. 

“ Keep yer distance,” he said. 

“Who’s not keepin’ his distance?” quoth Dick, 
rather in the tone of retort than inquiry. 

“ Yo bain’t.” 

“ Yo’re a dalled ligger ! An’ if I bain’t, what’s that 
to yo?” ^ 

“ Summat.” 

“Ah? What summat?” 

“ I’ll show you what summat afore I done wi’ yer.” 

“ I wish y’ud show uz now. It moot be summat 
wunnerful, your summat.” 

“Doff yer cooat off an’ try’t now. There’ll niver 
be a better time o’ day for sattlin’ the raight on’t nor 
now.” 

“I’m a glutton,” said Dick. 

At the same moment, or it had never been done at 
all, the two men stepped a pace back and threw off their 
jackets. They strode up to one another with squared 
fists; direct w-as their gaze each into the other’s eyes; 
Dick smacked Nat in the mouth ; Nat countered heavily 
on Dick’s body. There seemed every likelihood of a 
well-balanced contest, for Dick, though of a less 
matured strength than his antagonist, was more active 
and had a longer reach. But the boyj^ who still hovered 
within shrill shouting distance, holloaed out ; 

“ Oad Sim’ll do yer one yit, fayther, if yer don’t 
look out.” 

The peer had neither looked back nor slackened his 
going; the old man had with a more tremulous eager- 
ness moved forward to his side; but when he tried to 
assure himself by touch Beiley edged away. 


THE WASH-PIT 


97 

“ I don’t want to hurt thee,” he squeaked; “ I nub- 
but want to mek my title out.” 

The two combatants did not waste another glance on 
one another; they snatched up their jackets and quickly 
overtook the leaders. Forthwith the thrust of Nat’s 
elbow in the old man’s face hustled him to the rear 
again. They walked on together with unabated hos- 
tility but in legal peace. Soon they reached the village. 
It was hard upon the school hour; the road swarmed 
with children, who together with what of adult humanity 
was out of doors gathered about captors and captive 
as they proceeded to the police-station. 

The police-constable was not at home. The three 
looked at one another nonplussed, incapable of initiat- 
ive, while they were pelted from behind with inquiry 
and advice. Beiley grew impatient. 

“ Allow me to pass,” he said, and walked away up the 
road. 

No resistance was offered to his motions, but the three 
kept close beside him and the rest of the crowd pressed 
as near as they could. Wherever he went a confusion 
of dust and voices followed him. That would not do. 

“ Is there a magistrate at hand?” he asked. 

“ Theer’s the squoire at the hall,” said Dick. 

“ Take me to him.” 

After going something like a mile they reached the 
hall. The main rabble remained outside the lodge 
gates; none accompanied them to the door but crazy 
Ab Cully. The door opened and admitted them. Nat 
would have denied passage to Dick and Dick to Sim, 
but there might be no wrangling there; the footman 
was as loftily bland to one as to another and all four 
were admitted. Ab had gracefully baulked her exclusion 
by saying : 

“ Goo on in; I’ll wait of yer outside an’ see as the 
weather don’t mek a fool of itsen.” 


7 


CHAPTER XI 


THE MAGISTRATE 

As soon as they were within the wide hall Lord 
Beiley got separated from the others. He was so self- 
possessed, they so constrained; they felt that he had 
slipped from them ; they half wished themselves with- 
out. They were shown into the room in which the 
squire transacted public business. The lord sat, the 
labourers stood by the door and twiddled their hats. 
Presently the squire entered, a tall grey-haired man 
with a Roman nose set prominently in a long red face, 
which was decorated with small close-trimmed whiskers 
from ear to strong jaw. He inquired Lord Beiley’s 
business, not noticing the others. 

“Perhaps,” answered the peer, “you will be good 
enough to put your question to those men.” 

The squire turned his beaked face upon them. Dick 
and Nat fell back a little, so bringing old Sim to the 
front. 

“We’ve coomed about the reward, sir,” said the 
latter; “the hunderd pound. We’ve agreed wi’ 
wersens, me an’ Nat an’ Dick, to goo posh ^ for’t, 
jonnock.” 

“ I dunno for that,” muttered Dick. 

“ No more don’t I,” growled Nat. 

“What reward are you talking about?” 

“ For huz findin’ th’ mad lord, sir. ’Im theer, sir.” 

“ For me findin’ on ’im,” said Nat, making himself 
more prominent. 

“ ’Twere me as copped ’im,” said Dick. 

1 Shares. 


THE MAGISTRATE 


99 


“What mad lord are you speaking of?” 

“Lord Billy, sir,” said Nat. 

“Vizcount Bailey, sir,” said Dick. 

“ Tm as hed a mind to get married,” said Sim, 
“ an’ a mind and a hafe not to get married.” 

The squire’s red face flushed to crimson. 

“ How do you know this gentleman to be Lord 
Beiley ?” 

“ By’s necktie, sir,” said Dick. 

“ By’m bein’ sich a furrin talker,” said Sim. 

“ He don’t deny’t,” said Nat. “ For why? Cos ’e 
can’t.” 

The squire turned to Beiley. 

“Have they rightly named you, sir?” he asked. 

“Excuse me,” was the answer; “at present I know 
no reason why I should be asked the question.” 

The crimson on the squire’s face slowly paled to its 
every-day red, as again he addressed himself to the 
labourers. 

“The gentleman, quite justifiably, refuses either to 
acknowledge or repudiate the name you would confer on 
him; but whether or no, you’ve no right, nobody has, 
to bring him here without a warrant.” 

“ There were the newspaper, sir,” said Dick. 

“ Wheer be’t?” said Nat. 

“ Lenny kep it hissen,” said Dick. 

“ I’ll warm that lad, I will some, when I get within 
arm’s lenth on ’im.” 

“ My good fellows,” said the squire, “ a newspaper’s 
warrant for nothing but the day of the month, and 
hardly that. You’ve committed an assault upon this 
gentleman, and if he chooses to make a complaint I 
shall be compelled to listen to him.” 

“ No,” said Beiley, “ I came here with my own con- 
sent or I shouldn’t have come at all.” 

“The luckier you. And now go, stick to your 
lambs, your rams, your milkers and your stores; you 
know them, you can’t pretend to know the points of a 
lord.” 


100 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


The squire touched his bell, the footman opened the 
door; the men slipped out in a sort of huddled disap- 
pointment and relief. The squire turned again to 
Beiley. 

“I’m an old friend of Lady Sally’s,” he said; “if 
you were likely any time to be meeting with his lord- 
ship I should like to send a message by you.” 

“ Allow me to decline a commission so delicate.” 

The older and the younger man faced one another 
with equal pride; but while the former was red and 
angry Beiley’s self-possession was pale. 

“ I was present at that — what do you call it? Cere- 
mony? Lady Sally’s demeanour was perfect; every- 
body else’s, I can assure you, was damnably imper- 
fect. There’s one consolation ; she has got a healthy 
mind; she neither fumes nor frets. And that sorry 
scoundrel’s wiped off her slate for good and all.” 

Beiley would not move one step so long as the 
squire made the least appearance of having anything to 
add. 

“The best anybody present could say for him was 
that he might have gone mad all at once. Nobody not 
a born cad would go mad on such an occasion, unless 
it was with joy; and that nobody imputes to him. 
Such a sane honest healthy young woman ! It was 
a wonder to see her in the middle of that mob of frantic 
women and angry men. She didn’t even draw her 
lips; she gave away her pocket-handkerchief to her 
sister Lady Peggy, she apologized to the bishop, she 
kept her train out of the way of us men, she kissed her 
mother, she refused the vestry, and walked back down 
the aisle on her father’s arm more serene if possible 
than when she entered. What he has lost he’ll never 
know; and thank God, he’ll never even have the satis- 
faction of knowing that he has hurt her.” 

He seemed to have finished; Lord Beiley stirred; 
then he swooped down with a sudden, “ What do you 
think of him yourself, sir?” 

Lord Beiley stayed his steps. 


THE MAGISTRATE 


lOI 


‘‘Sir, my opinion can hardly have any interest for 
you.’’ 

“True, sir; but for your own comfort, sir. When 
one has heard of a dastardly action it’s a relief to speak 
one’s mind of it; it’s an occasion to air those words 
in a gentleman’s vocabulary which generally lie by and 
mildew; such as cad, coward, blackleg, scoundrel.’’ 

“ Thank you, if any part of my not extensive vocab- 
ulary stands in need of an airing, I must find an 
opportunity without further intruding on your leisure. 
In any case I shouldn’t consider it a fair opportunity, 
if the person to be insulted was absent or otherwise 
debarred from answering. I thank you for ridding me 
of those clowns and wish you good-morning,” 

He went out. It was as if his own judgment on his 
action had been set before him outwardly with the 
solidity of a material thing; and he liked the appear- 
ance of it the worse. He recognized moreover that 
he had not even gained his freedom by his wreckage; 
that he was still tied to what he had let go. He walked 
on many an hour, needing neither rest nor food, giving 
no heed to the road, taking a great solitude with him 
wherever he went. Over and over again he acted the 
late scene, corroborating the insults, magnifying the 
praise; praise which for a fraction of a second he had 
thought exaggerated, but which he had accepted as his 
own. 

What finally brought him out of his self-engrossment 
was the finding himself entangled in a group of men, 
who stood together on the top of a hill outside a village 
and looked northwards. What they saw, presently he 
saw. Once more the eternal, the ever-fresh alternation 
from the infinite variety of day to the sublime monotony 
of night had been achieved. A plain lay before him, a 
half-circle whose sombre extent was only measurable 
by a far-away gleam on the north-west of the horizon, 
which at that midsummer season would keep to-day in 
mind until it was to-morrow. 

But what drew his eyes and theirs was neither the 


102 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


liquid mystery of sky nor the solid gloom of earth, but 
something hung up between the two; what seemed to 
be a huge rolling cloud, permeated and fitfully, un- 
certainly, not lighted but rather shadowed by a furnace- 
like glow, which here and there stained it the colour 
of venous blood but nowhere burst through into the 
appearance of a flame. If fire it was, it was of much 
greater dimensions than the burning of any ordinary 
homestead or stack-yard, and besides it lacked that in- 
cessant life-like struggle between blaze and smoke which 
such a scene commonly presents. The air was still ; the 
reek had it all its own way, rose, rolled over and 
spread, voluminously shadowy; while that dull thin 
red appeared to have its seat upon the ground. 

Said a man close by Lord Beiley’s elbow, “ It’s gotten 
such a holt, I shouldn’t wunner if it never left off 
while it had burnt out the hull Carr.” 

“ Why don’t yer say the hull country and ha’ done 
wee’t?” said another. 

” Becos I like to say my say by bits.” 

” Can you direct me,” said Beiley, “ to a good 
inn ?” 

“ It depends,” said the last speaker, “ what yer mean 
by a good inn. If a place wi’ summat swallerable in’t 
will sarve yer turn there’s one not above fifty yards off. 
If yer wants is larger yer must goo furder, to Topley’s.” 

“ Kindly direct me to Topley’s.” 


CHAPTER XII 


VALUE RECEIVED 

Beiley rose at Topley’s next morning refreshed by 
his long sleep. It would appear that as the eye through 
long dwelling on one colour may become for a time 
blind to it, so the mind may fret and fume itself into 
a temporary incapacity for fretting and fuming. There 
was a handbill on the breakfast-table promising the 
railway journey from St. Ogg’s to Nesthorpe and six 
and a quarter hours at the seaside for a very moderate 
sum. While he ate he was slowly making up his mind 
to accept the offer. Nothing offended his serenity until 
the landlord brought in the bill. He put a hand into a 
pocket with the carelessness of a man accustomed to 
feel money wherever he touched. The pocket was 
empty; so was a second, a third pocket and his purse. 
Eleven possible receptacles for cash he searched, and 
the sum of his finding was one poor half-crown hidden 
away in his ticket-pocket. Three weeks ago the mis- 
chance would have been so easily remediable that it 
would not even have amused him, now he could not 
disguise his mortification, his discomfiture. Mr. Top- 
ley stood by and looked on, a stalwart ruddy man in a 
white duck jacket marked with blood-stains; for he 
was butcher as well as publican. 

‘‘Pm sorry,’’ said Beiley; “I didn’t know I’d run 
so short; I must post it to you.” 

‘‘We aren’t used to giving strangers credit,” said 
the landlord. “What’s yer name and address?” 

With a repressed repugnance he gave his card; but 
103 


104 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

it would seem that his lordship’s name only added doubt 
to doubt. In those remote parts a claim to the peerage 
is looked on with the same eye as a bank-note of a 
large face- value; that is to say with much scrutiny, 
nose to paper, with much holding up to the light, much 
questioning of endorsements, all ending in a final irre- 
solvable suspicion. Seeing which Beiley with some 
inward grimacing offered as security his watch, which 
in his search he had taken out and laid before him on 
the table. But he had yet to learn, that the creditor 
besides his legal claim to principal and interest has by 
the custom of the country the right to make his words 
bare of everything but their meaning. 

“ Nay,” said the landlord, “ I ain’t no judge o’ 
watches. It looks a fine un. All ain’t gold as glitters.” 

“ It cost five hundred pounds.” 

“ Mebbe. If so, how did yer come by’t?” 

” I bought it.” 

‘‘How can I know for sureness? Yer might have 
stole it. I ain’t saying.” 

“ It would be useless for me to defend myself against 
such a charge.” 

‘‘You can see that? Any’ow I shan’t take it. I 
don’t keep no dolly-shop. Yer must send the money. 
I’m glad yer didn’t stop for dinner.” 

So with a since-it-may-no-better-be countenance the 
landlord let him go, which he made haste to do after 
inquiring the name and direction of the nearest town. 

“Any’ow ’e ain’t a bad-natur’d sort,” said the inn- 
wench to her master. “See! he’s gied me this hafe- 
crown.” 

“Then, lass, he’s gied yer his last hafe-crown. I 
wonder whether he is a lord as he made out. Ay or no, 
he shan’t leg it to St. Ogg’s. Tell Ted to put the pony 
to the trap, sharply. An’ tell the missis to find me 
some sort o’ coat an’ hat, quick.” 

In five minutes the horse was put to, the coat and hat 
both found and donned, the landlord up-hoisted into the 
cart, the whip in hand. 


VALUE RECEIVED 


105 

‘'M’appen I shan’t be back for dinner, Mary,” he 
said; ” Tm going to St. Ogg’s.” 

” Not in them rags,” said the landlady shrilly. ” 1 
thought yer only wanted to run over to Bringham about 
that pig or summat.” 

” Can’t stop, Mary; I’m in a fussle.” 

Down went the whip, off trotted the pony, leaving 
the mistress in a fume. 

Beiley had not gone a mile down the road when he 
was overtaken by the landlord and invited to mount. 

”Joomp up, sir, joomp up. I’m for St. Ogg’s my- 
self, so yer may as well go the five miles sitting as 
afoot. If yer don’t mind this here dishabil.” 

”Not a bit.” 

” Never knew a man as did except lovyers, tailors, 
parsons an’ sewing-machine touts. With women it’s 
all the tother road; I reckon that’s why they call ’em 
the tother sect. My missis, if I went out of a Sunday 
without my Sunday clo’es on, she’d look to see the 
week ayther jib back into Sat’day or give a flying 
joomp forrards to Monday.” 

Beiley still appeared to hesitate. 

“Never mind them words o’ mine. Words aren’t 
stones; yer can’t knock e’en a sparrer down with ’em. 
No words ever roil me to signify except women’s 
words. And for why?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Beiley as he put foot to step. 

“I reckon it’s becos wi’ the sheders ^ yer hands is 
alius in yer pockets. That keeps the fire in. Now if 
a man’s gab goes too fur you’ve yer fists to fetch it 
back to scratch.” 

Topley stopped the cart on some rising ground and 
invited Beiley to look back, saying : 

“Yer can see the fire from here.” 

Away over the village was that appearance as of mist 
or smoke which Beiley had noticed the evening before. 

“What fire is that?” 

“ It’s the talk o’ the country. It’s the peat under- 
^ Females. 


io6 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

ground as is afire; it catched fire accidental last latter- 
end when they was burning the rubbish off, and it has 
bin burning ever since.” 

The innkeeper continued talking as he drove on. 

“Yon country it lays in is called the Carrs, a 
terrible flat country. It’s a bit o’ the fen-land, they 
say, as was drained by the Frenchies or the Jarmans 
long before me or you or King Teddy was thought of. 
Well, if the choice was before me I’d sooner be a boss 
an’ pull coals up-hill all day long than be a donkey on 
level ground.” 

“Speaking as the driver?” 

“Speaking as the driver.” 

Just before entering the town they crossed the river 
by a bridge, and the sight of it was singularly dis- 
pleasing to Beiley. The sun was shining and the 
waves glistening, but he saw it by night, storm- 
troubled, haunted by wandering ghosts of light and 
dark. 

“Where shall I set yer down, sir?” 

He was under a wholesome compulsion to be of the 
present. He requested the innkeeper to drive him to the 
door of one of the banks. But with his foot on the first 
step of the building he hesitated. In the bright sun- 
shine on that spotless pipe-clayed stone his dusty 
travel-stained boot had caught his eye, and he thought 
to himself, “ I must first get that cleaned.” So he 
turned back. 

“ I see, sir,” said Topley, “ yer don’t think much to 
the artchitecter. I don’t myself. I’ve no respect for a 
place as looks like a Methodist chapel as has sold the 
pulpit, took down the missionary notices an’ gone into 
business.” 

“ Is this the only bank in the place?” said Beiley, 
merely by way of saying something. 

“ No, sir, but if yer want to do a bit o’ banking I 
should say ’Ull. St. Ogg’s ain’t one o’ them plazes 
where money’s a weed; it ain’t even a hardy garden 
flower ; it’s rather what yer might call a tender ’ot-’ouse 


VALUE RECEIVED 


107 


annual. Now ’Ull’s a place where, as yer might .say, 
money’s at ’ome. I don’t mean it’s a litter in the 
streets; but it don’t knock a man back’ards there to see 
the colour of gold.” 

Under the circumstances the little town was distaste- 
ful to Beiley; the quietude of the street, the nicety of 
the pavement, the curiosity of the maid-servant whom he 
saw peeping at him through the opposite window. He 
felt on the sudden a full-grown desire to be at Hull. 

” How far is it?” he asked. 

“Thirty mile with a bit on. But you’re not going 
to walk it?” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because it’s a long road and a dree road.” 

“ Do you know the way?” 

“ As well as I know my own beer from Joe’s. You’re 
benton’t?” 

“Yes.” 

After a fortnight of deliberate irresolution the putting 
of a decision into a monosyllable pleased Beiley, as 
though he were at last doing something. 

“Well, sir. I’ve business at Flyby a good few miles 
on the road ; some hogs to look at. I may as well do’t 
to-day as next week — the hogs won’t improve none — 
an’ I shall be glad o’ yer company.” 

Beiley mounted again into the trap. One click of 
the innkeeper’s tongue and the fast-trotting pony drew 
them quickly out of range of the maid-servant’s curi- 
osity. Beiley felt the relief of it and took out his cigar- 
case. He offered his companion the last of the cigars 
with which his case had at first been stocked, and him- 
self had to be content with one which he had bought 
at Sopworth. The innkeeper had not yet selected his 
match, but he had the cigar between his teeth and 
steeply uptilted towards his nose. 

“Sir,” he said with an impressiveness that was the 
greater for the restraint of his voice, “ if you’d showed 
me your cigars i ’stead o’ your watch I’d have trusted 
yer for five pounds as ready as for five shillings. I 


io8 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

wouldn’t have asked how yer came by’em; I should 
respect the man — no offence — as had the judgment to 
steal a bit o’ stuff like this.” 

The pony stepped out at an invariable ten-mile-an- 
hour trot. The breeze raised by the motion tempered 
the overkindness of the sun ; there was nothing in the 
scenery to compel attention. The innkeeper’s ready 
conversation was such as did not demand an answer, 
hardly a listener. Beiley dozed a little, listened piece- 
meal, answered at haphazard, dozed again. At last on 
the far side of a little market-town he awoke, com- 
pletely, finally, with a jerk that gave him a crick in the 
neck. At the same moment he took out his watch and 
Topley pulled the pony up. 

” It’s five minutes past twelve,” he said. 

” And that’s Brigg behind us,” said the innkeeper 
shamefacedly. “I’ve come ten mile out o’ my road. 
I must have fell asleep trusting to you being awake, 
sir.” 

” Well, whether it was accidental or intentional, I 
hope it won’t seriously inconvenience you or your 
pony.” 

” Not a bit, sir; he’d think himself insulted if I took 
’im out for anything less than a thirty-mile spin. He’s 
got all the spirit of a whiskey-still and the delicacy o’ 
feelings of a maiden lady.” 

” Anyhow I’m much obliged to you both.” Beiley 
jumped down. ” And I’m sorry it’s not in my im- 
mediate power ” 

” Not a word o’ that, sir. That cigar ud pay all 
charges for a drive across the hocean. Keep to the 
left, cross the bridge, foller the finger-post to New 
’Olland, and yer couldn’t mistake the road if you’d put 
money on the event and squared your legs. New 
’Olland, remember. Wish yer good-morning, sir.” 

The innkeeper, who seemed to have lost time to make 
up, turned his pony round and started briskly off on 
his homeward journey. Beiley’s road rose gradually 
to a wind-swept wold, plough-tamed and rounded by 


VALUE RECEIVED 


109 


the weather, that master-farmer. It was thinly peopled 
but not desolate, for everywhere it was covered with 
crops and trimmed by man’s hand. The keen invigor- 
ating air smacked of the sea. After a three-hours’ 
tedious walk he came to the first village, and two miles 
on to another. New Holland, as he was informed by a 
tall and ruddy native. 

‘‘ Then which is the way to Hull?” he asked. 

” Round by the station,” said his informant, his 
finger helping him. 

Beiley went round by the station and soon found 
himself on a wooden pier. Before him, sullenly glisten- 
ing, flowed a great river turbid with the daily vexation 
of the tide; beyond which loomed in vaporous confusion 
the chimneys and spires of a great city. It flashed into 
his mind that here was water to cross and fare to pay. 
In his dismay he thrust his hands into his pockets and 
felt a coin. He drew it out, a half-crown; which he 
had doubtless overlooked in his troubled search at the 
inn. Which doubtless the innkeeper had contrived to 
slip into his pocket unperceived. But he was already 
on the ferry-boat when he jumped to the latter con- 
clusion; and at the same moment he bethought him- 
self that his benefactor’s simulated sleep was but the 
cover to another act of charity, with such a spasm of 
angry shame as if he had had a beggar’s penny 
chucked into his hat. 

He was glad to be in the crowded streets, they seemed 
an assurance of his personal insignificance. The half- 
crown that was not properly his being changed, he 
thought he could riot do better than spend the remainder 
on a shave and wash and on a cup of tea and a roll 
at a confectioner’s. Then he entered the first bank 
whose plate caught his eye, asked to speak to the 
manager, and was introduced into a private room. An 
unwieldy hulk of a man with a protuberant belly 
waddled in with difficulty upon two gouty feet. His 
face was flabbily fleshy, coarsely purple, with blubber 
lips, deformed nose, bloodshot eyes ; and yet there 


no 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


must have been somewhere a discriminating soul hidden 
away under that bloated animal, or how could it have 
earned the wages of bank management ? 

“ Can you offer me any security, my lord?” 

” Not immediately, except my signature.” 

“ Under ordinary circumstances that would be ample. 
Are you prepared, my lord, to confide in me beyond 
what you have done?” 

” I think not.” 

” Then I cannot do what you desire, my lord. That 
is all I need say; unless you ask me the reason of my 
decision.” 

Beiley felt challenged to ask. 

“What is it?” 

“My prima facie estimate of your lordship, founded 
let me say on merely hearsay evidence, is that you 
are an untrustworthy person. It would be a subtlety 
unnecessary in a banking business to consider whether 
the incompetence arises from a physical or a moral 
defect.” 

“ I can’t pretend to being able to resolve your uncer- 
tainty. I have but to bid you good-day.” 

“ Good-day, my lord.” 

Beiley went forth in a disturbance greater than any 
which had yet troubled him. When the squire of Gled- 
ham insulted him, there was at least the sorry comfort 
that the rebuke was under the half-cover of the third 
person and came from an equal, a cultured gentleman, 
one akin to himself in blood and breeding. But that 
bloated hull of a man, that mere husk ! And his dis- 
section so swift, direct and remorseless that the knife 
gave the shock of a dagger ! But the street into which 
Beiley had stepped was a busy one; automatically his 
outside put on a smooth-skinned usualness, while his 
inner man was in a ferment. Yet so largely does the 
animal predominate in our composition that only an 
hour later and he was chiefly conscious that he was 
hungry; hungry and without a penny in his pocket to 
buy bread withal ; a condition so strange to his experi- 


VALUE RECEIVED 


III 


ence as to have at first something in it of the amusing. 
But as the day dragged his feet grew heavier, the stones 
harder, his stomach emptier. He felt more and more 
aloof from the well-fed citizen who bustled on the pave- 
ment, more and more akin to the outcast who sold 
pennorths of boot-laces in the gutter. He looked with 
a new pity upon a woman who crawled the street, a 
grey-haired tatterdemalion, haggard and unwashed, a 
waif of time. It would appear that the look he cast on 
her emboldened her to turn to him, to mutter an in- 
articulate something, to hold forth a hand, a mere claw, 
fleshless, filthy. He put his hands into his pockets and 
quickly drew them out again. 

‘'I haven’t a single coin upon me,” he said, “or 
you should have it.” 

He expected her to reflect something of the shame, 
the consternation that he himself felt. She dropped her 
hand and turned away without a change on her ashen 
face, as though refusal were the commonplace of life. 

Soon after that a boy thrust a handbill into his hand, 
and before he had time to /drop it the large-lettered head- 
ing caught his negligent eye : “ Do you want money?” 

The ensuing “ If so ” was of the usual description. 

A private gentleman with large sums of money else 
lying idle was willing out of pure benevolence to effect 
loans of any amount from two pounds to twenty thou- 
sand to any responsible person without bond, bill of 
sale or publicity, and would arrange repayment solely 
with an eye to the borrower’s convenience. An N.B. 
clinched the honesty of the undertaking: “This is 
guaranteed genuine. No connection with foreign ad- 
venturers whose unscrupulous proceedings have so often 
been ventilated in the courts of justice.” 

Beiley was by no means a fool in business matters, 
but his need thrust his prudence aside ; he went straight 
to the advertiser’s address. The street was an 
untidy hanger-on to one of the busier thoroughfares, 
something between the belatedly residential and the 
hardly-yet commercial. ThQ was of a like 


1 12 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

ambiguous character ; a largish eighteenth-century 
erection, certainly English as to the prim facade, tentat- 
ively classic as to the stuccoed porch. It had a dirty 
office-like door-step but a shut door and a bell, under 
which was the smallest and neatest of brass plates with 
this inscription, “ Mr. Percival.’’ 

A maid-servant opened to his ring, and ushered him 
through a bare passage into a small room so sparely 
furnished, that when he had sat upon one chair and put 
his hat upon the other, there was nothing left for the 
eye but a strip of worn linoleum across the floor and 
an insurance company’s calendar over the chimney. 
Presently a good-looking young woman entered, good- 
looking so far as regular features, the full poundage of 
flesh and the bloom of youth could make her such. She 
was only just a little too much dressed to be well dressed. 
In a business-like manner she inquired his business, and 
hearing that it was with Mr. Percival conducted him to 
another, a larger room, furnished with some luxury 
and almost taste. The eye turned from the two or three 
safes ranged along the wall to rest with pleasure on the 
massed geraniums, cinerarias and begonias on a stage 
by the open window. 

He followed the young woman round a screen so 
placed as to intercept the draught both from door and 
window ; behind which he found a pallid disease- 
wasted elderly man reclining on a high-backed much- 
cushioned chair before an office table. The young 
woman before she withdrew placed a chair for the 
visitor closely side by side with the invalid’s. The 
reason for this arrangement appeared at the latter’s first 
words, “ What is your name ?” a faint hiss only audible 
to an attentive ear. He leant back on his chair like one 
at the last gasp, his face was white and drawn, he 
hardly seemed to see between his bloodless drooping 
eyelids; but one of his thin hands lay on the table as 
it were a-dying, and like a symbol of mortmain held an 
office pencil, with which when the answer came he wrote 
in a diary to all appearance automatically. Every now 


VALUE RECEIVED 113 

and then feebly putting forth the other hand he sipped 
a cup of bovril. 

“ What do you want?” he hissed. 

” To borrow money.” 

” How much?” 

” Say a hundred pounds.” 

” Security ?” 

The speaker it will be seen wasted not one hiss of his 
scanty breath on the superfluous. 

” My note of hand. Or you may have this.” 

Beiley laid his watch upon the table. The money- 
lender’s eye hardly seemed to travel so far. 

” References ?” 

“ I have none.” 

The man’s writing-hand feebly travelled the necessary 
inches and touched an electric bell that was upon the 
table. The young woman immediately reappeared and 
came near. 

” Take that to Stoll.” 

Without further indication by so much as the blink 
of a dead eyelid the girl took up the watch. 

” Should you like to go with me ?” she said to Beiley. 
” He’s our valuer.” 

“As I do not know Mr. Stoll, I don’t see that it 
would be any advantage to me.” 

“ Oh, he’s the swell jeweller here. Coulson’s aren’t 
anything to him; and he has another Ai place at 
York.” 

“ Thank you, I will remain here.” 

The young woman went. The money-lender said no 
more; he lay back with .shut eyes, each breath a slow 
almost imperceptible pant. Beiley felt the contiguity 
as that of a to-morrow’s corpse; he moved his chair a 
yard or two away; the other made no sign, but lay back 
and just refrained from dying. Having broken the com- 
pulsion to give an ear-strained attention to those weak 
labouring pants, Beiley had nothing for his hearing but 
the buzz of a fly that hovered pertinaciously about the 
cup of bovril ; and the flowers being hidden by the screen 


II4 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


he had nothing within sight but the range of safes, a 
much gilded mirror and the foolish drapery beneath it 
that hid an empty fire-place; in fine there was nothing 
to draw him off from the bitter amusement of his 
thoughts. 

At the end of a tedious quarter of an hour the young 
woman returned, put the watch back on the table and 
said : 

“ He says not more than fifty.” 

The money-lender had hardly seemed to see, hardly 
to hear, but he immediately beckoned Lord Beiley nearer, 
and then spoke : 

” ril buy the watch outright for fifty pounds, and Til 
give you another fifty for your cheque on your bankers 
for a hundred. Both or neither.” 

Beiley was chiefly indignant. 

” I gave five hundred pounds for that watch; it’s a 
perfect time-keeper.” 

The money-lender’s eyes were closed, and for anything 
that appeared his ears too. The young woman stood by 
and looked on as at an every-day affair. Finally she 
took on herself to answer. 

” Pa doesn’t profess to understand watches or 
jewellery. He considers himself bound by Stoll’s 
valuation.” 

Beiley looked away from her; he disliked her even 
more than the gasping flint-skinner. 

” I’ve thirty thousand pounds at my bankers’,” he 
said, ” that I should be glad to get three and a half per 
cent for.” 

The money-lender lay back and slowly panted, as 
though entirely occupied with the mere labour of living. 
Again without haste the daughter answered for him. 

“You see, if gentlemen want money without notice 
and without inquiry, of course they have to pay for the 
accommodation . ’ ’ 

“So it would appear.” 

With the slightest lift of a finger Mr. Percival signed 
to Beiley to put his ears forward. 


VALUE RECEIVED 


115 


If you’ll give me two days and your bankers’ ad- 
dress you may name your own terms. That’s my last 
word.” 

So it appeared. He lay as though every communi- 
cation between himself and outward things was stopped ; 
he lay like a house in which there is death, every door 
shut, every blind drawn, every voice stilled. What 
Beiley felt was not at all the loss but altogether the cheat ; 
he chafed under the tyranny of his own folly, as those 
do who pay blackmail for a half-concealment. But even 
while he was taking it for granted that he could not 
consent he had consented. Death would have been a 
less abhorrent way-out for him than to have knocked 
at another man’s door, sat on another man’s chair, 
stripped himself to another man’s ear, inquired the price 
of another man’s money. 

” I haven’t my cheque-book,” he said. 

‘‘ That doesn’t matter,” said the daughter. 

The father seemed to have parted with all his interest 
in life save for the slight matter of those weak alternate 
thimblefuls of inbreath and outbreath. She sat at the 
other side of the office table, took a slip of blue stamped 
paper from a drawer, in a business-like hand and proper 
form wrote the body of a bill payable on demand ; then 
put it before her father, who traced his anaemic signature 
under her vigorous ” Value received.” Beiley crossed 
it with his acceptance and the name of his bankers. 

” How will you have it?” she asked. 

” Ten pounds in gold and the remainder in small 
notes.” 

She took cash from a safe and counted it out upon the 
table before him. Then she had leisure for curiosity; 
she looked at him with her blue eyes, eyes that never 
either fired or blenched. He stood and let her look. 
Presently she said : 

” I’ve often wondered what you had against her.” 

“Nothing,” 

“ Then you’ve acted like a fool. Has she money?” 
“Yes.” 


ii6 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

‘‘ How much?’’ 

“ I never asked.” 

“ Humph ! Is she good-looking?” 

‘‘Yes.” 

‘‘ Nice-tempered?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then you’ll never make much out as a business 
man, Lord Beiley.” Her cold blue eyes never left 
him. “ There’s only one possible way for you to set 
yourself right with sensible people; to go one better; 
marry somebody richer, better-looking and nicer- 
tempered.” 

“ Where should I find such a paragon ?” 

Her healthy natural cheeks changed as little as painted 
ones would have done. 

“ I’m on offer. I mean to marry into the upper ten. 
No middle-classers for me, you may go bail for that. 
I shall have not a penny less than three hundred and 
fifty thousands on pa’s death. Isn’t that so, pa?” The 
money-lender answered with a momentary half-opening 
of his eyes, a half-audible monosyllabic out-breathing. 
“ I never lost my temper in my life and never shall. 
You can judge of my looks for yourself. I shall want 
to spend the honeymoon on a yacht in the Mediter- 
ranean; I’ve always had a fancy for that, and I never 
let my fancies go. What do you say?” 

“ I don’t like your good looks, I don’t like your nice 
temper and I don’t like your money.” 

Her face showed a cool approval of his directness. 

“ You’ve the makings of a man in you yet. I think 
you’re doing wrong not to take me ; I should have looked 
after our estates and kept you out of further mischief. 
I can manage both men and property. Women I just 
walk over. I can ride well, play golf, tennis and the 
piano, and I’m learning to shoot. But I’m not going 
to puff myself ; I shall go off without that. Never mind 
about saying good-day to pa. It’s his heart and com- 
plications; he has no strength left over from business 
for civilities. I really think if he was only to put the 


VALUE RECEIVED 


117 

usual number of ‘ Thank-you’s ’ into the day’s work it 
would kill him in a week.” 

She accompanied him to the door. 

” We’d better shake hands, we’re bound to meet again 
in society. Unless you make an utter mess of it. You 
don’t expect she’ll ever have anything to say to you 
again, do you ?” 

She was between him and the door; there was no way 
of escaping the answer. 

”I don’t.” 

” Of course not. Well, there must be plenty who’ll 
suit you as well or better. And don’t go fooling with 
financial agents; they’re certain to best you. Good- 
bye; or rather au revoir.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


MAN AND BROTHER 

Beiley Stopped that night in Hull and in the morning 
betook himself to the nearest docks. While he walked 
along the water’s side, much elbowed by busier men 
than himself, and turning over in his mind remote places 
in the four quarters of the earth to which he might trans- 
port himself and his cares — Stavanger, Kurrachee, 
Odessa, New York — his eye was caught by a large poster 
affixed to a pleasure steamboat, offering a day-trip to 
Nesthorpe for two shillings or three according to the 
accommodation. He remembered that a similar offer 
had caught his eye the day before. What attracted him 
was that Nesthorpe was unknown to him even by name, 
and he felt that a place unknown to himself should be 
unknown to persons likely to know him. What decided 
him was that the vessel’s steam was already up and the 
clock within two minutes of the advertised time of de- 
parture. There was no time for hesitation ; he hastened 
to take a ticket and go aboard. To a traveller of his 
experience that paltry passage between mud-covered flats 
and by a featureless waste was drearily commonplace. 
Nevertheless the north-east wind fresh to human lungs 
after its Arctic regeneration, as it cooled his skin so it 
somewhat quickened his mind and revived his spirits; 
while the large movements of the sea demonstrated 
pictorially, however inattentive his eyes and indolent his 
perceptions, the smallness and transitoriness of the 
analogous waves that trouble men’s lives. 

He landed at Nesthorpe pier about noon and walked 
into the town. He found that it was a mushroom of a 

ii8 


MAN AND BROTHER 


119 

place, small and new and flat and common. What of 
it was not red brick was brown sand. Swarms of day- 
trippers encumbered the streets and rioted on the beach. 
He had a comfortable sense of being from home. He 
lunched at a hotel and walked out again on the shore. 
The breeze blew from seaward, keen, salt-flavoured, 
vivifying. Under a grey sky the grey swelling waters 
came up in long-ranked waves, slow to break into white 
with low monotonous thunder. The wet sands glistened 
wanly. On both wet and dry numberless children, bare 
and purple to the top of the thigh, ran and dug and 
frolicked. Only one child stood and was still of all 
that crowd; stood with a new unused pail in one hand 
and a new wooden spade in the other and gazed at the 
coming tide with large grey eyes. He seemed to Lord 
Beiley to be as much alone there and as separate as he 
himself was, and he felt moved to speak to him. 

“ Well, what do you think of it?” 

He had to speak again before the grey eyes were 
wrested from their looking and the mouth just opened 
to say : 

” Don’t talk, I listening to it.” 

Beiley stopped but not long by the preacher of a 
doleful gospel; stopped but not long listening to a 
white-faced minstrel, and again to a black-faced one. 
When he listened without looking he perceived no differ- 
ence in their music. He watched a donkey under a lady 
so considerable of person and so voluminous of wrap- 
page, that nothing appeared of him but two up-pricked 
ears. There being no part of his body exposed whereon 
to lay the customary encouragement, his motions were 
only just brisk enough to satisfy a donkey’s desire for 
change of scenery. Again he saw a starveling pony so 
spirited of return that he gained home a good two hun- 
dred yards in advance of his rider. The crowd laughed 
as though that was what they had paid money to see. 
He was in the thick of the spectators of a Punch and 
Judy show when he felt a tug at his coat, looked down 
and saw the little sea-gazer whom he had spoken to. 


120 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ I can’t see,” said the boy. 

Beiley took him up on his shoulder. His own view 
was blocked by a little clinging arm that held on by his 
forelock, so that he had to laugh — for he did laugh — by 
hearsay. He gave the child a half-crown to drop into the 
collector’s cap, and when the last laugh was laughed 
set him down and said : 

” What are you going to do now, young un?” 

“ I not young; new baby’s young.” 

” Old un, I mean.” 

” I not old; granny’s old.” 

” Middle-aged one — where are you going?” 

” People shouldn’t never ask questions.’' 

So saying the child shouldered his spade and went 
down again towards the wet sea-margin. Beiley walked 
towards the town, and amused himself by watching the 
throngs of day-trippers, who were beginning to make 
betimes for the railway station. The children, weary 
and bedabbled, w’ere becoming fractious some of them, 
some quarrelsome, while others with unabated spirits 
played in and out among the legs of their seniors. The 
mothers, fearful lest they should reach the station less 
than the due half-hour before time, hauled the laggards 
along, and with the same hearty goodwill scolded the 
cross and the over-lively. Some dozen yards ahead the 
father with his hands deep in his pockets, if by chance 
he had not the baby in his arms or the youngest but 
one on his shoulder, would be trudging stolidly along, 
pipe in mouth, never looking back, leaving the manage- 
ment entirely to his missis. 

Lads and lasses, as yet in the early unacknowledged 
unassorted stage of courtship, laughed and larked in 
groups with a good deal of push-and-tumble merriment. 
Accepted lovers moved amid it all with mutual arms 
encircling waists. A large Sunday-school party passed 
by raising the dust; the van singing ” Little Drops of 
Kindness” while the tail sang “Hold the Fort.” A 
drunken man who had lost his hat, merry himself, was 
the cause of mirth to others. A fox-terrier, quite sober. 


MAN AND BROTHER 


I2I 


ran from cluster to cluster, backwards and forwards, 
looking for his owner. Touts made profuse proffer of 
cheap board and clean beds, of meat-teas and mere hot 
water for large or small parties. At every engine whistle 
from the sidings near by one or more of the trippers 
would hurry a walk into a bustle, a bustle into a run. 
The air was full of the dust and the clamour. 

In the midst of it his interest was suddenly stayed. 
He had caught sight of his own valet but some twenty 
yards off, coming towards him as if from the station 
and followed by a boy who carried a Gladstone bag. 
He darted into the nearest shop, violently jostling some- 
body who was entering before him. 

‘‘ Come, sir,’’ said the latter, “ this is ’ardly the way 
to treat a man and a brother’s toes and ribs and other 
valuable property. I hab white ’ands and feelings 
though my face am black.” 

He was a man huge every way but particularly about 
the middle. He wore Christy Minstrel garb ; calico 
trousers striped vertically with red and white, waistcoat 
striped horizontally with white and yellow, blue cloth 
coat with large brass buttons, an exaggerated shirt collar 
that jutted out far beyond his nose, and on his big head 
a mere doll’s hat. His face was blacked; his hands, 
though uncorked, could hardly have been called white; 
under his left arm he carried a banjo. While Beiley was 
apologizing he had a momentary fear that he had been 
seen through the window; but the valet passed. 

“Granted, sir,” said the minstrel. “And in token 
of forgiveness I beg to propose, if you’re agreeable, that 
we sit and eat our plate of beef or ’am or beef and ’am 
at the same table.” 

For it was a cheap eating-house in which Beiley found 
himself. 

“ Willingly,” answered he, “ if you’ll allow me to 
invite you to be my guest.” 

The minstrel bowed. 

“ Sir, you am white man all through. With the trifling 
and necessary exception of your liver.” 


122 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


There were not many customers in the house at that 
time of day, but what few there were looked on and 
listened with an attention which may have tickled the 
vanity of the mountebank but was displeasing to the peer. 
He asked for a private room and was shown into a small 
one looking on a backyard, in which the week’s washing 
hung out to dry. Its floor and furniture showed signs 
that it was near the end of a busy day, but its air was 
presently the better for the window which at Beiley’s 
request was opened wide. He ordered the best dinner 
that the house could provide. The unctuous satisfaction 
upon his guest’s face appeared through its artificial ob- 
scurity. The viands placed upon the table were plenti- 
ful if not choice, and he ate for both, while his enter- 
tainer did little more than proffer and look on. Only 
once during the meal did he more than momentarily 
interrupt the play of knife and fork. It was to say : 

“By the bye, have you heard the latest, sir?” 

“What’s that?” 

“ Lord Beiley’s in the town.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ Sir, if folks want to keep their secrets the proper 
colour of a secret, that is to say in violet — see the witti- 
kism? — they shouldn’t pass ’em through a tallywag 
office. They’ve wired for his friends and bespoke ap- 
partments for him in Dr. Kibblewhite’s private lunatic 
asylum.” 

Beiley had a momentary glimpse, vividly, erron- 
eously imaginative, of strait-waistcoat and padded room. 

“ Is the lamb to your liking?” he said. 

“ Sir, it reminds me of them happy by-gone days 
when I was young, tender, innocent and just fat enough 
to be int’resting.” 

At last the minstrel had regretfully to decline more 
of anything solid; he laid knife and fork down, leant 
ponderously back in his chair and said : 

“Sir, I’ll deal plain with you; I’m deeply grateful 
to you.” 

“ Don’t mention it.” 


MAN AND BROTHER 


123 


‘‘Sir, the condition of my waistband at this moment 
is such, that if I don’t mention it there’ll be a job for 
the tailor. To tell the complete truth, I haven’t felt 
such a pleasing difficulty in going all round a meal and 
keeping there for a month.” 

‘‘How is that?” 

‘‘ Sir, the national taste for legitimate music is so on 
the down-grade that a man of my frame can’t keep 
himself in bread and cheese at it. Social status, cigars 
and pots of four-’alf, wives and children, houses and 
furniture, clean shirt-fronts, yachts and yachting cos- 
tumes, moty-cars, gold tooth-picks and similar necessary 
luxuries are quite out of the question.” 

‘‘ By legitimate music you mean ” 

‘‘ Banjo, bones and burnt cork. Them Pie-a-rots are 
all Tommy-rot; and French Tommy-rot at that. No, 
sir, take my word for it, the only truly British line of 
’igh art is Sambo. When my pal deserted me to put 
a night-gown on and join the white-faced Frenchies, 
it almost broke my ’eart. It quite broke my pocket.” 

Beiley took out his cigar-case, which he had replen- 
ished at Hull, and offered his guest a cigar. At the 
first puff the latter so struck the table with his great 
fat fist that the empty stout-bottle before him leapt up 
nerve-shaken, and would have quite lost balance but 
for the moral support of her half-full sister by her side, 
whose greater weight and more phlegmatic disposition 
got her off with a little womanish start. 

‘‘Sir, you’re a nobleman !” cried the minstrel. 

‘‘ None of that!” 

‘‘The only drawback to this sooty complexion, sir, 
is that it does pull a veil over the feelings. You can’t 
blush blacker upon black. Can’t. I’ve tried but 
failed. It puts a point on wit and adds a jinny-squaw 
to vocal song, but when the heart’s brimming over it 
neither drips a drop nor mops the slop. My lord ” 

‘‘My name’s Jackson,” said Beiley hastily. 

‘‘ And mine, heartily at your service, my lord — Mr. 
Jackson — is Sambo. It’s the only quid-for-quod I’ve 


124 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


been able to get in; the only occasion on which my 
counter has risen anything like level with your lead. 
Well, sir, in a brighter and a better sphere 

“ And a more musical? But pray say no more.’* 

“Sir, your word is law with Sambo. I bow to it. 
Without me rising please understand I bow to it.” 

The minstrel puffed and sipped for a while ; then said 
with a sigh, half of repletion, half of regret : 

“ No, sir, the only being in this wide world and 
spacious firmament who Eve what you may call my 
knife into is Jim Crow, late of Sambo & Co., Limited. 
I don’t by any means mean a carver, nor even such a 
table instrument as you’ve just now so kindly — butyou’ve 
closed my gab, and closed be it. Sir, a cow could 
sing on smoke like this. But Jim Crow is ’enceforth 
scrawked out of my books. Now no longer Jim Crow 
but Monsoo Parley- voo.” 

There was nothing violent in the man’s reproach; 
rather it had a hoarse full-fed pathos, pleasingly sug- 
gestive of the rich ooze of gravy and succulent sauce. 

“ Sir, two men may get two meals a day each where 
one ud ’ardly earn a snack. Look how I’ve been fixed 
this last month ! Had to make the pitch and gather 
the gapers; had to sing the songs and accompany ’em; 
had to ask the questions and answer ’em ; had to pro- 
duce the chestnuts and laugh at ’em ; had to keep one 
eye on the first-floor winders and the other on the pave- 
ment; had to collect the nobbings — that hasn’t been 
very sweating though — keep the blooming boys in 
order, humour the rips without offending the flats, and 
give as good as I got to them Pie-a-rots ! Pretty ’ard 
swot, sir, for average takings of something less than 
two pence and an assy drop. A cow sing, sir? It ud 
make a kitchen table rear up on its hind legs and 
patter like billy-oh. Sir, it strikes me you’re an artist 
yourself.” 

“What makes you think so? My cigars?” 

“ Partly, but not altogether. Partly. It ud be a 
shock to my religious faith if I discovered that puff like 


MAN AND BROTHER 


125 


this could get into *ands as wouldn’t appreciate it. But 
not altogether. There’s something in your nose, and 
something in your heye, and something somewhere else 
that I can’t just put my finger on in words, as whispers 
to me in thrilling tones, you’re a man and a brother. 
Is it so? Or have I shied at Aunt Sally and ’it Uncle 
Spankem ?” 

“ I’m afraid it’s a miss this time. I’ve played many 
parts, both serious and would-be gay; I’ve compounded 
jokes and compelled laughter, but without blacking my 
face. The more’s the shame you’ll say.” 

” It’s not for me to pile coals of fire on my bene- 
factor’s ’ead. Or anybody’s ’ead in fact, unless there 
was ’alf-baked pudding in it that wanted another turn. 
But you’ve had drorings towards the part of Sambo? 
Don’t say no.” 

“ I have at this present moment.” 

The minstrel uprose and proffered his hand, w^hich 
was accepted. 

” A man and a brother,” said he. 

Lord Beiley had indeed in his youth been a fugitive 
member of an amateur negro-minstrel troupe, which 
gave what are called charity entertainments, because 
as I suppose the audience gave their money and ap- 
plause out of the same feeling of pure pity. It was a 
folly which he had partly forgotten and apparently w^as 
willing quite to forget; nevertheless the thought had 
more than once in the last half-hour crossed his mind, 
that he would willingly have changed complexions with 
his guest. He had begun to reckon up the difficulty 
he would have in covering his identity. The threat of 
a lunatic asylum he regarded rather as an inconvenience 
than a peril, but a ridiculous inconvenience that was 
more terrible to him than the most heroic peril. 

” I wonder what sort of a man you are when you are 
washed,” he said. 

“ A very good-looking man, if it wasn’t for the 
pimples,” answered the other in all seriousness. 

It reminded Beiley of what Lady Sally had once said 


126 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


to him : “ You might be a very good-looking man, Jack, 
if you would;’’ and he had disdained alike the com- 
pliment and the counsel. The thought that he could 
so easily distort his recognizable features into blubber 
lips and sooty hue lifted him into a present sense of 
security. Then came the ebb of hesitation, as speedily 
as the advancing wave is degraded into a retreating one. 
What natural inabilities we have we have educated, 
others we have made, fostered, carefully developed, until 
the cultured Englishman of to-day is stopped if a shadow 
lie across his path. The objections that he uttered were 
not those that were chief in his mind; nevertheless their 
counter-noise did something towards stilling the un- 
answerable whispers of unacknowledgable timidities. 

“ I haven’t an outfit,” he said. 

“I’ve another rig-out at my diggings. If they fit 
me they’ll more than fit you. Another banjo too, and 
bones an’ all.” 

” Oh, I can’t play.” 

“You’ve got a thumb and a finger, haven’t you?” 

“Certainly; even eight fingers and two thumbs.” 

“ Then you’ve more science than you want. You 
can’t play well on the banjo and you can’t play bad; 
you can only play. It’s the instrument. If every 
blessed planner, fiddle, drum and jew’s-’arp was at the 
bottom of another flood, and only one banjo floated 
atop — and if it didn’t it ud be a very heavy wetter — 
music ud be saved. You can’t go wrong on it — I’ve 
sometimes tried when something’s given my temper a 
twist, and it sounded beautiful — you can’t go wrong, 
and you can’t go any righter than right. Besides three 
of its five strings are broke; which makes it just 
ludicrous easy to play. If it sounds a bit thinnish 
shuffle your clogs as if you couldn’t ’elp dancing it 
was that military, and if it quite breaks down, whoop 
and holler till your voice is all in bits.” 

“Sing do you mean?” 

“ Sing’s the professional word.” 

“ I haven’t any voice.” 


MAN AND BROTHER 


127 


“ It ud spoil you if you had. All the voice you want 
is the voice you was born with and squawled with for 
your mammy. Them fancy singers as gets thinner and 
thinner as they go ’igher and ’igher, till they squeak 
out in a hangel whisper at the ceiling, is no good for 
anything but for to keep the babby quiet. What the 
public likes is for a man to swarm to the tip-top of his 
voice, hold on ’alf a mo*, beller all he’s good for, then 
drop plump to the ground, on his feet. It alius fetches 
a clap and a penny or two, and puts the crowd into a 
good humour for your next jocular joke.” 

“ But I’m no joker; I never made a joke in my life, 
so far as I can remember.” 

You was just born for the job. Them clever chaps 
as won’t be satisfied unless their jokes are made on the 
premises while you wait are no good in our line. You’ve 
the ring all of a sweat-lather trying to understand ’em, 
when they ought to be doing nothing but laugh at ’em ; 
and that pitch is a dead failure. No, the public likes the 
old chestnuts they’re sure of. A man likes especially to 
be sure he won’t be laughed at if he laughs. I’ve known 
a quite free-and-easy sort in private as was as timid of 
his laugh on the street as a just-out girl. I suppose you 
could remember a witticism if you’d heard it twenty 
times in the last hour?” 

‘‘ If it was bad enougfi.” 

‘‘ It’ll be that, no fear.” 

Beiley put a finger up to his colourless cheek. 

” How do you do it?” 

“ Cork and beer. Thanks to you, sir, there’s all the 
ingredients on the table before us.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


IN SWEET MUSIC 

Lord Beiley’s chief persuasive was compulsion; for 
the man who will not what he should shall will what he 
would not. He durst not venture into that street again 
in his own colours; he had as much dread of it as if it 
were peopled with his acquaintance, their bland faces 
transparent masks to their abhorrence. His thoughts 
had gone back from the menace of physical constraint, 
on better thoughts almost too absurd for apprehension, 
to that sudden over-balancing glimpse of his valet. 
Quite an ordinary man was that valet, ordinarily com- 
petent in his duties, ordinarily natured and educated. 
His master had known him in a way all his life; knew 
his parents, small farmers on one of his estates, and in a 
way his snuffy old grandfather. He knew the man 
would be perfectly respectful if they met, would express 
nothing by word, sign, look; and yet somehow he 
feared his encounter more than the Earl of Laxton’s or 
Sir Harry Spender’s, with whom he had been intimate 
on equal terms. He had been so born and bred to the 
assumption of the circular superiority of John Viscount 
Beiley over plain John Tilt, that the consciousness that 
there would now be a tacit readjustment of relation be- 
tween them made his sensibilities as tender to touch as 
the skin of a whipped colt. But the moon which shines 
overhead is with one strong pull heaping up the tides 
both here and at the antipodes ; and so in our lustreless 
human affairs contrary impulses may in the same man 
cause like effects. He was drawn also by the strange- 
ness, the whimsicality, the perverseness of the idea. It 

128 


IN SWEET MUSIC 


129 

amused his tedium, insulted his prejudices, widened his 
severance. 

“Show me how you do it,“ said he. 

The eating-house had a bedroom, small but fairly 
clean, at his service. Sambo hastened to his lodgings 
and fetched thence what was required. In less than an 
hour Lord Beiley was travestied into an unbelievable 
negro; with sooty complexion, swollen lips, calico 
pantaloons of the national red, white and blue, waistcoat 
one resplendent green, jacket halved between a furious 
scarlet and a mild lemon. Only his hair, his hands 
and his boots showed like himself; and their incongruity 
heightened the general absurdity of his appearance. 
He looked in the glass and was satisfied, with that bitter 
satisfaction which overtakes a man when he is con- 
strained to desire what he would fain abhor. 

“ Surely, “ he thought, “ I couldn’t look more a fool 
if I were placarded all over with what I’ve done.” 

But the universal interest taken in him as soon as 
he stepped on to the pavement gave him a shock. So 
feels the timid bather who thinking to step in ankle- 
deep suddenly finds himself up to the nipples. The 
passers stopped, they crowded round, they followed. 
The grey day was drawing to its sombre close. 

“ Do they always pester you like this?” he asked. 

“ I wish they did. The last few days they’ve ’ardly 
noticed me as much as if I’d been a scissors-grinder 
or a catch-em-alive-oh.” 

“ Send them away.” 

Sambo turned to them. 

“What am yer a-starin’ at? Hab yer nebber seed 
two private gentlemans a-walkin’ out to take the creases 
from their Sunday clo’es, as have been up the spout 
ebber since their last jolly good drunk?” 

The crowd laughed and pressed close. 

“ That hasn’t helped much,” said Beiley. 

“ Tell ’em you’ll call the p’lice.” 

“ I shall call the police if you don’t go away,” said 
Beiley with blubber-lipped seriousness. 

9 


130 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


The crowd only laughed the more, and now straitly 
surrounded them, a solid obstacle. Sambo stepped on 
the kerb for the sake of an added three inches of height, 
then turned about and ran his preluding fingers up and 
down the strings of his banjo. The wind blew keenly 
up-street bearing sharp particles of grit that stung the 
unprotected skin. Down-street a narrow strip of grey 
sea was visible, which grew momently less divisible 
from the more diaphanous grey of the sky. He struck 
up in a battered baritone : 

“ Clar de road, yo nigger, 

Or I tread on yer toe. 

Go home to yer ma ! 

Ts in a bigger 
Hurry dan yo. 

Do you hah 

‘‘Stop this fooling,’' said Beiley, “and let’s move 
on.’’ 

“Couldn’t do it at the price,” said the minstrel; 
“ haven’t had such a pitch since the drop in trade made 
black looks as cheap as white uns.” 

Again he sang : 

“ I nuffm to do nowhere. 

So I mad for to git dere 

An’ begin for to finish it. Quick ! 

Cut yer stick ! 

Out de road, yo nigger. 

Or I tread on yer toe. 

Be off to yer pa ! 

I’s in a bigger 
Hurry dan yo. 

Hook it ! Clar ! ” 

The subsequent applause showed that the song offered 
just such an agreement of music and sweet poesy as 
hit the popular taste. But Sambo knew better than wait 
until the going-off clatter of their boots mocked the 
coming-on approbation of their hands. With a tap of 
his banjo over Lord Beiley’s drooping shoulder-blade 
he bespoke his attention. 


IN SWEET MUSIC 


ir^i 


‘‘Massa!’’ 

The response was a reluctant “ Well?” 

” How do yer know it well ’fore I said it?” 

” I don’t know.” 

” Den don’t gib no mo’ sich soft-roed answers ’fore 
dis dishscrubbinatin’ aujence, but tend to me. When 
am a man most up an’ yit most down ?” 

The crowd’s expectation compelled Lord Beiley to 
play his part. 

” I don’t know,” said he. 

”Tink.” 

” I can’t.” 

” Scrat yer head.” 

” It wouldn’t be any good.” 

”Nuffin in ’im ?” 

” I hope there is.” 

” Bang it gen dis lamp-pos’ den.” 

” What for?” 

” Fetch out de idees; like woodpecker fetches lice 
out a bit o’ rotten wood.” 

” It would hurt me.” 

” Den your head has feelin’s in ’im and nuffin else? 
Like a turnip head wiv de turnip gouged out? Yah! 
Haha ! Hoho ! Hehe ! But my colundrium — When 
am a man most up an’ yit most down? Gib ’im up?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Dat’s what de man say when the tiger ax ’im if ^e 
rayther be eat raw or cooked. Hehe ! Well, a man 
am most up an’ yit most down when ’e am up a tree. 
What tink o’ dat ?” 

Then under cover of the crowd’s hilarity Sambo said 
in Beiley’s ear : 

“ Off with yer tile, boss, and collect the nobbings 
whilst I chant ’em something as’ll keep ’em here to be 
shot at.” 

“ Not I.” 

“ Then you’ve done me out o’ two shillings good.” 

But even while Beiley refused he espied his valet’s 
face in the thick of the throng, and fixed as he thought 


132 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


expressly upon himself. It was a different face from 
that which he had been wont to see above the two hands 
that waited upon him ; the two lips were agape with 
amusement, there was an interested human soul looking 
out of those two eyes. John Tilt thrust his elbows into 
the ribs of the nearest pair of bystanders, got a good pur- 
chase and levered himself a foot nearer to his master; 
who durst not stand any longer facing recognition. He 
took off his hat, turned his back on the valet, and while 
the minstrel sang a sentimental lay went about in the mob 
collecting pence. He directed his movements entirely 
by a desire to avoid his servant; but either he mistook 
or Tilt changed his position, for presently the two 
were again face to face. The peer felt a shock as the 
valet dropped a penny into his hat, then slapped him 
with jovial condescension on the shoulder, and said in 
quite another voice than that wherewith he accepted his 
employer’s daily exactions ; 

“ Bray VO, old chappy! I haven’t laughed as much 
this fortnight.” 


CHAPTER XV 


FORCE OF HABIT 

He fell into it sooner and more completely than he 
had thought possible. He even took a sort of pleasure 
in it, or rather different sorts of pleasure, sometimes 
bitter, sometimes reckless, sometimes pleasurable ; oftener 
with a composite flavour of all three; mockery mixed 
in ever varying proportions with self-dissatisfaction and 
self-applause, with a sense of freedom and a growing 
sense of safety, with the mere demand of a vacancy to 
be filled, with pure enjoyment, with sheer despair. He 
had taken up his lodgings at the little eating-house. 
He spent the mornings indoors, partly in practising his 
new calling, partly in such distraction from care as he 
could get from Sambo's conversation, from a cigar or 
the indolent reading of casual print. He went forth with 
his new comrade in the evening, when he felt it easier 
to face the public than in the brightness of the morning. 
He learnt to stand up with at least a semblance of forti- 
tude to be pelted by Sambo’s jokes, even upon occasion 
to pick up and pelt back; he learnt to twang a banjo 
with the assurance that renders skill superfluous; learnt 
to swell a chorus in that something between a howl 
and a holloa which passes on the pavement for song; 
learnt, hardest of all, to allow money to be dropped into 
his hat, children’s ha’pennies, greasy pennies, stingily 
genteel threepenny bits, the shilling of the out-on-the- 
spree prodigal, without seeming to resent it. 

He really enjoyed those suppers he and Sambo had 
together in his private room after the day’s work was 
over. His companion’s noisy merriment bustled his 

133 


134 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


thoughts about, not allowing them to sit and mope. 
He spoke of the humorous calamities and strokes of 
luck to which wandering folk are subject; of to-day’s 
events and to-morrow’s fooling; all with that rudely 
aimed fun which never stops to measure how nearly it 
has hit the mark. 

Sambo was not always jocular however. One morn- 
ing after an overflow of merriment more boisterous than 
usual, he suddenly turned off to say : 

‘‘ What sort of a big drum should I make, boss?” 

Judging by the outside a capital one, I should 
think.” 

” Good ! But seriously, boss; not as instrument but 
instrumentalist?” 

“ How should I know? I think it will be more inter- 
esting to you if you give me your own opinion.” 

” There w^as a Salvation lass as I got rather sweet 
on at Yarmouth last year. She used to speak to us 
chaps on the sands. But you appear to think my gifts 
w^ould be throwm away on a drum ? Sounds a bit ’oiler, 
don’t it? Give me the bones and the banjo for expres- 
sion, say nothing of the attitudes; I can put anything 
into ’em from a fun’ral or a judgment summons to a 
kiss in the corner. I’m not exaggerating. I’m toning 
down. With them instruments, used legitimately, I 
can be as sure of making a woman cry when I want to, 
as if I poked ’em into her eye. I’m not wrong in 
terming that a gift, am I ?” 

” Certainly not.” 

Thank you. For she told me I’d a call. I wonder 
whether she knew how well a Salvation bonnet suited 
her. She wanted me to chuck beer and ’igh art and 
join the Salvation Army band. I told her it wouldn’t 
be a call, that, it ud be a thundering holler as fetched 
me out so far. She liked well enough herself to ’ear 
me sing ‘ The Medder Way ’ : 

‘ Oh, the hair was sweet ! 

And stars instead of daisies at our fee — ee — eet.’ 


FORCE OF HABIT 


135 

I don^t think, boss, you’ve ever told me if you’ve any 
decided religious opinions about weekdays?” 

” I haven’t.” 

”I have; I prefer ’em kept strictly as weekdays. 
On Sundays I can do with a moderate modicum of 
alleluia and amen. She gave me her address — in case. 
You’d have thought I should have lost it hover and 
hover again, for I’m a demon at losing small articles. 
Consequence of my size, I suppose, I don’t seem able 
to give the full force of my intellect to anything under 
’alf a ton. But it’s alius turning up when least ex- 
pected. It ’s just as if it was to be. I found it this 
morning in my ’bacca pouch ; how it got there I know 
no more than you ; and — With your permission, boss. 
I’ll ring up another bottle of ditto. She’s littlish, but 
so good, what there is of ’er, that if there was more 
there’d be more than enough.” 

Of course Sambo sometimes mentioned the great 
Beiley mystery and then naturally his conversation 
ceased to be amusing, whether he jestingly diagnosed 
his hearer’s mental, moral and financial condition, or 
balanced a theory of his continued presence in Nesthorpe 
against that of suicide or foul play. He never spoke of 
Lady Sally except seriously and respectfully; which 
in a person of his free conversational style should ap- 
pear remarkable, even if the fine quality of our ignor- 
ance allows us to believe that Lord Beiley’s will was 
therein telepathically imposed upon him. 

So it went on for some two months. Every day 
Beiley questioned with himself, ‘‘ What shall I do to- 
day?” and every day his yesterday’s doings were the 
motive of to-day’s. For two months or nearly ; and one 
gleamy evening after a sultry day he and Sambo were 
on the sands amusing a guffawing circle with quip and 
song. He was singing, to use the common word for 
a contortion of sounds. Until then Sambo had been 
unable to persuade him to favour the company with a 
sample of his solo quality. Then he w^as singing with- 
out persuasion. Questioned thereafter — for he was 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


136 

questioned — he could only allege that he had seen his 
agent, Mr. Fasson, earlier in the day; so there we 
must leave it. He sang the song he had sung on his 
youthful appearance as a Christy-minstrel ; and while 
he sang the brown sand was before his eyes dotted with 
moving folk, whose exaggerated shadows were more 
conspicuous than themselves; brown sand crossed by 
glistening threads of water, and stretching out of sight 
between the foam-laced margin of the sea and the low 
sand-banks sparsely overgrown with coarse blue-green 
marram. 

“ I fell in lub wid Dinah 
Cos I nuffin else to do. 

I fought nuffin could be finer 
Dan coo until she coo. 

I fell in lub wid Dinah 
Cos I nuffin else to do, 

So I send an’ tell de jiner, 

Br’er Cupid, bring de glue.” 

He turned a little to his left in order to accept a penny 
from a grimy hand. The grimy hand belonged to a 
West-Riding mechanic, but him he never saw; for just 
behind was Lady Sally on horseback. She threw him 
a shilling and he had to stop and pick it up. 

‘‘That’s a capital song,” she said; “I should like, 
if you don’t mind, to hear the rest of it.” 

He had perforce to sing, though his mouth w^as dry 
and his knees trembled. 

‘‘ I fell out wid Dinah 

Cos I nuffin else to do ; 

For change am more diviner 
Dan one eternal coo.” 

He kept his eyes turned away from her towards the 
sun, whose gleam made everything else invisible. 

“So I fell out wid Dinah 
Cos I nuffin else to do. 

An’ old Br’er Cupe de jiner 
Hain’t no reli’ble glue.” 


FORCE OF HABIT 


137 


‘‘ Please turn this way so that I can hear you better. 
It’s a rattling good song and I want to hear the words.” 

It was Lady Sally’s command, so he had to turn, 
had to face her, had to sing. She sat and ruled her 
restive horse with the confidence of an accomplished 
horsewoman ; she beat time to the air with the stock 
of her whip. She was perhaps a little paler than he had 
been wont to see her, but was otherwise unchanged. 
He wetted his lips with his tongue and sang on to the end. 

Again I will lub Dinah 
When I nuffin else to do ; 

Her smile will seem de finer 
For dat little interloo, 

As de white upon de china 
For de tiny dab o’ blue. 

So I’ll fall in wid Dinah 
When I nuffin else to do ; 

But fust I’ll tell BFer jiner, 

‘ Don’ mix too stiff de glue.’ ” 

” Thank you,” said Lady Sally; ” I should have liked 
to hear that chorus once more, but it doesn’t seem 
to be to my horse’s taste. However I want you to 
come up and sing before my hotel while I dine this 
evening. I like a little choice music over dinner. The 
Crown Imperial hotel.” 

” Come? I should fink we will, lady !” said Sambo. 
” You ain’t no Dinah; when you say ‘ come ’ we nuffin 
else to do.” 

“Thank you; but I should like to have the other 
gentleman’s promise too.” 

Beiley’s dry lips had to part, his tongue to wag. 

“ I’ll come,” he said. 

“ Half-past seven. Don’t forget.” 

She gave the horse his liberty and cantered off. 

“ Reckon we’re in for a good thing,” said Sambo. 

“Massa!” he cried again in his histrionic bawl, 
“ Massa ! Are yer tendin’ to me?” 

Beiley’s eyes were fixed as though she were still 
where she had been. 

“Massa! Massa!” 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


138 

So Sambo bawled until his ears, not his will had 
heard, his tongue not his will had answered. 

“What is it?“ 

“ Would yer rayther be married to an ugly bad 
woman what yer liked or a lubly good woman what yer 
didn’t like?” 

His thoughts followed her canter along the sandy 
waste; and at the same time she was before his eyes 
as she had been, sitting with perfect horse-mastery and 
self-mastery. Her dark-blue habit, quite plain, out- 
lined so well her lissom figure. He wished he could 
have offered her a more befitting mount. Witchcraft 
for instance or Heyday, than that livery-stable hack, 
ill-broken, vicious-eyed, under-bred. 

“ Gib him up, massa?” 

Sambo prodded him wdth his banjo until he answered 
yes. Or w^as it no? 

“ So do I, massa; boaf on ’em. Hahaha ! Hehehe ! 
Knock de bones about, massa, while I sing yer little 
song shall make yer laugh udder side de mouf.” 

The bones rattled ; Sambo sang : 

It’s only a little while that I shall love you, 

Only a little while I shall approve you, 

Only a little while that I shall kiss you, 

Only a little while shall have you or shall miss you. 

Shall weep with you or smile ; 

For either you will change or I, 

Either we shall change or die ; 

One shall change or both shall die. 

So make the most, love, of this little while, 

This little, little while.” 

Did the singer’s common voice, ill-mated with senti- 
ment, penetrate so far as the vestibule of Beiley’s 
thoughts? Who can say? He stood as though he 
heard nothing, only saw; saw a fine face, fine as much 
in its freedom from all prettiness as from all pettiness; 
with a fineness which did not depend upon colour of 
hair or eye, shape of nose, bend of brow, but was ex- 
pressive of high breeding, large intelligence, undis- 
turbed self-control, invincible honour; a face which he 


FORCE OF HABIT 


139 


had seen before and yet had never seen before. Was 
it a little paler? or not paler? Did that make the 
difference ? Or what ? 

^‘What’s up with you, guv’nor?” said Sambo in his 
ear. ‘‘ Off with your tile and collect the collection. That 
old geyser in black silk with a purse in her hand ’ll 
give you sixpence if you ’urry up before she finds the 
thripOny bit.’’ 

The nudge of his elbow helped his partner’s numbed 
intelligence. Beiley took off his hat and went round 
like an automaton among automata. 

“ Gemplemans an’ ladles, I’ll put a colundrium to 
yer. When is a man here when him there, there when 
him here, upside when him downside, bottom when him 
top, roun’ de corner when yer got him by the button, 
habbin’ a toof out when him habbin’ his dinner, sick 
when him well, dead when him alive? Know? Gib 
him up? When him absent-minded. Hoho ! What 
price dat for a joke, massa?” 

Beiley did not answer; he had walked away towards 
the town. 

“ And now, frien’s, my partner’s just had a talligrub 
to say he’s corned into a fortune of a few billions, so 
he’s goned off to hab a half-pint of fo’penny on tick on 
the strength of it ; and I want to go and see as there’s 
fair play ’tween ’im an’ the pot. Fair play’s a jew^el; 
I got one in my Sunday go-to-meetin’ breast-pin. 
Don’t foller me, chillens. If yer foller Sambo, he got 
a coloured gempleman friend what’ll make it warm for 
yer somwhere some day.” 

In spite of the prohibition he was pursued by a lessen- 
ing trail of admirers as he hastened after his comrade; 
who however had gained his lodgings before he was 
overtaken. Sambo went up-stairs to his private sitting- 
room. Beiley was already stripped of his outside, his 
hat, his gaudy coat and waistcoat. What may have 
been within him who shall say? His daubed counten- 
ance was incapable of any expression except the vulgarly 
ludicrous. 


140 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ For God’s sake,” he said, ” get me some hot water 
to wash this cursed tomfoolery off.” 

“We’ve done very well with the tomfoolery for to- 
day, the last pitch totalled two, six and a half ; we 
could afford to knock off for that matter and do a 
buster, but there’s the bespoke at the Crown Imperial 
for seven-thirty. I wouldn’t disappoint her for two 
bob.” 

“ I can’t go.” 

“ It’s a promise. And a promise binds a man; un- 
less he can back out same road he come in.” 

“ You promised.” 

“So did yourself. ’Alf a dollar and ‘what do you 
two gents fancy for a wet?’; that’s the least I value 
this engagement at.” 

“ I can’t.” 

“ ‘Can’t’ be blowed ! A man only can’t either be- 
cause he won’t or because his properties are uncled. 
Small-pox is no bar; only the ring ud be so large you’d 
want a moty-car to collect the inside.” 

“Stop your confounded fooling and listen to me.” 

“ I am listening. I alius listen best when I’m talk- 
ing; when I’m not I’m thinking.” 

“You can go; I shan’t.” 

“P’raps you’re used to disappointing females; I 
ain’t.” 

Beiley need not so have tyrannized over his features; 
there was nothing outside but a farce of burnt cork. 

“Don’t answer back, boss; don’t kick a man that’s 
down. I confess I have disappointed one; but it was 
to avoid disappointing all the others. There’s no ex- 
ception without a gen’ral rule; and in gen’ral woman 
is boss of Sambo. I understand your feelings, boss.” 

“You do?” 

“True fit. A bit o’ stage fright, that’s all. You’ve 
lost sight of the cork. It covers a multitude of pimples. 
You’ve got to do it, boss, and you will. To oblige a 
lady. That’s my ultipomatum.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


UNDER DISTINGUISHED PATRONAGE 

Punctually at half-past seven Lord Beiley and 
Sambo were outside the hotel Crown Imperial, a new 
erection on the sea front. What distinction it pos- 
sessed beside that of its brilliant name-inversion, which 
however was rather intellectual than architectural, came 
of the number of its windows, the redness of its bricks 
and the greenness of its paint. The greater part of the 
ground-floor was taken up by the common dining-room, 
which was already fully lighted up, and through its 
open windows was as public to curiosity as the street. 
There were sundry groups of diners at separate tables; 
some large and noisy if not merry, others small and 
quietly intent upon eating and drinking, but among 
none of them was anything like the face and figure of 
Lady Sarah Sallis. Sambo however dashed straight 
off into his opening ditty, aiming it speculatively at the 
second storey. 

“ Mary Maria Eliza Sophia, 

Pve sweltered away for you — 

A taller dip couldn’t run greasier ; 

If I don’t speak the truth I’m a liar— 

Till I only pull twenty stone two, 

Lean, pudding and fat. 

Brains and ’at ; 

While daily my stomach grows queasier 
And my tongue drier.” 

Three or four lively young persons in the dining- 
room started up from table and tripped to the windows. 
Without there was already a small crowd round the 
singer. 

141 


142 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ Mary Maria Eliza Sophia, 

IVe swallered ’ole truck-loads of pills, 

Tons of powders and hoceans of slop — 

If I don’t speak the truth I’m a liar — 

But nothink relieves these ’ot chills. 

If a sneeze they takes off, 

They puts on a cough ; 

So what offers for a life that’s on swop ? 

Any buyer ? ” 

A waiter flung high the lower sash of a window on the 
second floor. Nobody came to it, but it was to Lord 
Beiley as though the whole crowd of his acquaintance 
were there looking down on him, Lady Sally in the 
forefront with a face that made all the others seem 
lifeless rounds and ovals. Sambo saw so much as the 
open window and the probable listener behind it; he 
took off his hat, bowed with an upward inclination and 
went on with his minstrelsy. 

Mary Maria Eliza Sophia, 

I’ve cancelled all of my bets — 

All of ’em, that is, what ain’t morals — 

Got a coffin on the three years’ hire. 

Made my will and left you my debts. 

When you pay don’t forgit 
To take a receipt ; 

It’ll be a sweet momentum of our quarrels, 

When I’m ’igher.” 

Coppers came freely from the loungers at the 
windows; but Beiley picked them up with so careless 
an eye, that Sambo had to mix practical asides with his 
professional tomfoolery. 

“ Massa, will yer answer me dis question dat Ts 
gwine to ax yer? (There’s a penny under yer very 
hoof.)” 

” Yes.” 

“Well? Go on.” 

“Yes, I say.” 

“ Push up den; hurry ’long. (Wink up’ards at that 
gal at the winder.) I can’t stand here for ebber; shall 
hab to toddle off ’fore de end ob de year to get boots 
mended.” 


UNDER DISTINGUISHED PATRONAGE 143 

‘‘Push what? Hurry where?’* 

“ Be quick an’ answer de question dat yer promise.” 

‘‘I can’t until you’ve asked it.” 

‘‘ Oh, any blame fool can answer a question after 
it’s axed. (Shake yer hat under the nose of that toff 
with a tooth-pick; he’ll drop something in.)” 

‘‘ I’m not any fool.” 

‘‘ Yo uncommon fool, massa? ’markable fool? 
strornary fool?” 

‘‘Yes.” 

‘‘Shake hands, massa.” Sambo with pantomime of 
enthusiasm shook the scarcely offered hand. ‘‘ Proud 
of de honour, massa. Dem uncommon sorts of fools 
ain’t common in our fam’ly. Well den, de question. 
Last time I got hooked to be married to a gal — Last 
time or last time but twenty? I no head for refmetick; 
it was boiled for a cabbage once in my early old age 
when we runned short o’ green vegetables, an’ it nebber 
quite got over it. Well, last or last but twenty, de 
nearer I git to dat weddin’ cake de better I fink of it. 
Dat is de better I fink of it as a prospec’ and de worse 
I fink of it as a meal. How d’ yer s’pose I got out of it 
dat time?” 

Beiley’s eyes were on the ground; but he knew with 
the certainty of vision that somebody stood at that upper 
window and looked down, somebody with a face whose 
terribleness lay not in a vulgarly outward expression 
of scorn or anger, but in its cleanness and clearness. 
Still he had to answer, raising his eyes from the 
ground : 

‘‘You asked the girl to release you ?” 

‘‘Not much ob dat; she’d a wanted back dat half- 
dollar I borrered.” 

‘‘ It would have been the only honourable course.” 

‘‘ I wasn’t on de honable line jus’ den. (Don’t set 
that woman as if you’d expected a quid and got a cough 
lozenge.) I pay my creditors fo’pence in de pound de 
day afore, so I was givin’ de honable a much needed 
rest.” 


144 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“You spoke to her parents perhaps?” 

“ Her pa was stone-deaf, couldn’t hear nuffin but 
‘What ’ll yer drink?’; and her ma was alius out 
washin’.” 

“Washing?” 

“ Yes; she partner in a co-op steam sanit’ry laundry. 
She an’ all ’er frien’s but one goes and gits togedder; 
den dey wash de character of that frien’ what not dere; 
patent wet progress, warranted not to shrink. But yer 
habn’t tell me how I git out ob dat ar marriage?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“I walked out ob it. Haha ! Like Lord Beiley. 
Hehe! What tink ob dat?” 

Then with the coarse only half-human guffaw but 
just out of his throat, the blubber-lipped grin still on 
his lips he rose, or if you will dropped, as his wayward 
way was, into the fancifulness of sentiment. 

‘‘We went the meadow way, 

Where no gossips are to fear 
But the jackdaw and the jay ; 

Keeping as near 

As man and maiden may 

Under the large eye of the married day.^’ 

The man’s street-rasped voice had contrived some- 
how to disguise its commonness ; there was a tenderness 
that was not simulated in its hoarse pianissimos and 
rough-hacked tremolos. 

“ We said one say 
A-crossing of the brook — 

’Twas neither yes nor nay ; 

And we looked one look 
Half o’er the stile, 

And we thought one thought all the seven mile.” 

Lady Sally had turned away and was lost to the 
window for a minute or two. 

“ We travelled hand in hand. 

And the yellow-hammer’s cheep 
Came from a far-off land 
Where they neither wake nor sleep. 


UNDER DISTINGUISHED PATRONAGE 145 


Oh, the air was sweet ! 

And stars instead of daisies at our feet.’^ 

A waiter came out of the house and pushed import- 
antly through the ring of audience to the singer. 

“ Her ladyship,’’ he said, “ requests the other gentle- 
man to please sing the song about dinner.” 

He spoke with a pompous delivery and an outswollen 
chest; ladies of title are not common at Nesthorpe 
hotels. Lady Sally had returned to the window. There 
was no resisting the compulsion ; Beiley could not pre- 
tend to miss the proper concatenation of dinner, diner 
and Dinah, confused in the foolish waiter’s brain. He 
sang. Lady Sally listened, looking down. Before her 
eyes was the portion of the sky remotest from the 
rapture and unrest of the sun, was the flushed sea, were 
the sands dotted with folk, was the sorry singer just 
beneath. 

“ I fell in lub wid Dinah 
Cos I nuffin else to do. 

And so forth. A tittering white-capped maid-servant 
came out of the next house and asked him to desist in 
the name of their lodger, whose musical taste it would 
seem was nice. 

” He says your voice is like a bicycle ’orn with a 
quinsy.” 

” I beg your pardon,” said Lord Beiley, “ I’m doing 
this at the command of another lady. You’ll perceive 
that I can’t desist without her permission.” 

” What a nice-spoken young man!” said the maid, 
no longer tittering but admiring, as she withdrew. 

So he sang on, and his thoughts were hidden under 
his artificial complexion ; he never once lifted his eyes 
to the upper window. When he had done, one small 
boy and the waiter on the door-step clapped their hands 
applauding her ladyship’s taste. Then the waiter again 
came forward, swollen-chested, and said : 

” Her ladyship requests will you please come in and 
partake of refreshment.” 

10 


146 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


Beiley’s reluctant bow was swept out of view by 
Sambo’s ready ‘‘Thank her ladyship; her ladyship’s 
very good; to ’ear is to obey,” and his readier step 
forward towards the hotel. He had to follow. They 
were shown into the large dining-room and seated at 
a table to themselves by a window. Of the other occup- 
ants of the room the younger, giddier or less refined 
were disposed to be amused ; the select few resented the 
intrusion. A commercial exquisite muttered something 
about ‘‘common niggers,” forgetful that the natural 
thing is yet commoner and cheaper than the manu- 
factured. Two ladies ceased their elegant trifling and 
began to chew, in the hope that their disdainful rising 
from the table five minutes later would have the colour 
of a simultaneous protest. One gentleman, more 
promptly incensed, left his plate to find and complain 
to the manageress. 

‘‘ It was by her ladyship’s express desire,” he was 
told; and his complaints and resentments at once col- 
lapsed, as though he were but a pin-pricked bladder 
and they its thin inflation. He returned to table to find 
his dinner removed, and all his eloquence could get him 
nothing for his lost plate of green goose, but apologies 
and an unsubstantial cheese-cake with two pennorth of 
strawberries by way of dessert. Meanwhile Sambo and 
his partner dined, and the assembly which had gathered 
to hear them sing remained in front of their window 
to see them eat. The seasonable dishes that were laid 
before them were such as Nesthorpe considered choice, 
and were always in accordance with Beiley’s preferences. 
His languid habitual preferences in meat and drink had 
persisted amid his general indifference. 

Sambo was like a cow in clover. He enjoyed the 
flutter their entrance had caused. He ate heartily of 
everything, and was as ready with the empty glass as 
the waiter with the full bottle; until the natural red 
began visibly to struggle with the supposititious black. 
Every now and then he stopped to pick his teeth, to 
ease another button of his waistcoat and to dwell for 


UNDER DISTINGUISHED PATRONAGE 147 

a minute with a Janus-headed satisfaction on the past 
and the to-come of the menu. His companion ate little, 
pecked at the sole, did little more than let the grouse 
lie on his plate, drank one glass of wine. Sambo bent 
over the table and said : 

“ Don’t you feel very fit, guv’nor?” 

“ Quite, thank you.” 

” Well, Td struggle to do my duty to ‘what we’re 
about to receive,’ if I was up to the neck in a bilious 
bout. To say no to lamb and sparrer-grass is like in- 
viting Providence to take a walk when on your very 
door-step.” 

Beiley looking up saw the crowd about the window. 

” Pull the blind down,” he said to the waiter. 

The waiter did as he was bidden. There was a disap- 
pointed booh ! from the crowd without. 

“Oh dear!” exclaimed a young lady at the next 
table, ” now we shan’t be able to see anything.” 

“You mean, Lizzie,” said the young man opposite to 
her, ” ‘ be seen by any one.’ ” 

Beiley was not so locked up but that he not only 
heard, but understood that either result would be the 
spoiling of a dinner. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said. ” Waiter, please to 
draw the blind up again.” 

More than one head was turned, but the owner of not 
one of them sucteeded in connecting that quiet high-bred 
self-assured utterance with the farcical face and the tom- 
fool’s get-up. Thenceforth the .speaker let the mob 
stare and point and comment with an outside of perfect 
indifference. If he saw them again it was with a glance 
as casual and uninterested as that which fell upon his 
plate. Only once again did he speak during the meal 
and that soon afterwards; to Sambo, who in the short 
interval divided unequally between the memory of his 
fifth glass and the anticipation of his sixth was stimul- 
ated to ask the waiter her ladyship’s name. 

” Lady Sarah Sallis,” said the waiter, with the look 
this-way mien of the pointer-out of a notoriety. 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


148 

Sambo whistled a long low well-sustained whistle, 
in which was a wonderful blending of surprise, admira- 
tion, pity and disgust. But his glass was again full ; he 
lifted it, rose and said to the whole room with the brisk 
gravity of the lucky man who can combine a duty and 
a pleasure, sentiment and sensuality : 

To her ladyship. Lady Sarah Sallis. May she 
never ’ave reason to regret anything more than a certain 
little incident at a certain little church.” 

Beiley did not seem to hear; the rest of the room 
was divided between amusement and surprise. Sambo 
sat again with an empty glass and a full heart. 

“One thing, boss, I’m sure of,” he said; “I dare 
build a house on it; not to sell, for residential purposes.” 

Beiley cut him off with a prompt “ Sh !” so low that 
it only reached the ear it was levelled at, so peremptory 
that it admitted neither of debate nor reply. But as 
a hardy vegetable only sprouts the more freely for a 
timely nip of the lead between finger and thumb, so 
Sambo’s conversation after that check did but run the 
more effusively and buffoonishly in other directions. 
It was pointed chiefly at the waiter, who received it with 
a mixture of gratification, condescension and official 
iciness; the latter so incomplete that after he had suc- 
cessfully resisted the irritation to smile at the opportune 
moment, he w'ould be taken with a snigger or even an 
open guffaw, when he should have been giving a coldly 
respectful, undivided ear to the desires, for instance, of 
the white-waistcoated gentleman opposite who seemed 
to be perennially empurpled with astonishment at his 
own importance. But when the w^aiter was preoccupied. 
Sambo scattered his jokes and irresponsible chatter right 
and left, apparently quite indifferent whether they met 
with response or rebuff. Some fumed, some sat in a 
specially iced frigidity, some laughed freely. 

Dinner however and even dessert had at last to come 
to an end, though with a leaving of apricots and straw- 
berries. Beiley rose in melancholy silence, Sambo after 
a hearty “For what we have received.” 


UNDER DISTINGUISHED PATRONAGE 149 

‘‘ Sir/’ he said, firing his question point-blank at the 
white-waistcoated gentleman, “do you ’appen to know 
what it is to be on precious short rations ?” 

The white-waistcoated gave an indignant snort, which 
was quite lost upon Sambo, who with his banjo pointing 
to the menu card and his other hand on his waistcoat 
continued : 

“ Because if you don’t you can’t realize what it is to 
feel the luxurious inconvenience of too much of all that 
there under this ’ere.” 

He slipped a shilling into the waiter’s hand with a 
loud “Sonny, that’s for yerself.” 

“ Thank you, sir. Her ladyship desires to see you 
two gentlemen before you go.” 

Said Beiley to the minstrel as they followed the waiter 
up-stairs : 

“ Of course you won’t apologise.” 

Sambo, who was first on the stairs, turned. 

“ D’you think I’ve gone dotty,” said he, “like his 
lordship ?” 

“ I can’t say I think you’re over blessed with dis- 
cretion either.” 

“ Discretion ? Great Scott ! It’s the only thing I’ve 
too much of, what I’ve got under my own ’air-oil and 
what my friends lend me, give me, chuck at me, press 
upon me, shove down me. If I could alius make as sure 
of the price of a pot as what I can of ’alf-shares in any- 
body’s and everybody’s discretion, I should never want 
for wet up to my neck, no more than the everlasting 
sea.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


HER LADYSHIP 

Lady Sally stood by the window as though she were 
still looking down on the singers. She turned however 
on their entrance, made the just sufficient return with 
her head to Beiley’s silent inclination and Sambo’s 
“ Good-evening to your ladyship. I hope your lady- 
ship enjoys the best of good ’ealth.” She asked them 
to be seated and sat herself, still within outlook of the 
window. Dressed in evening costume of a choice sim- 
plicity she offered a strange contrast to her motley com- 
pany. The throng upon the sands had diminished to 
a few quiet promenaders. In the sky the white memory 
of the sun was still stronger than the brightest of the 
stars, but the proud dark sea had done with the day ; and 
yet it had not taken on the night’s repose, for the sound 
of its perpetual turmoil came through the open window. 
But what the looker’s eyes seemed to rest on was that 
far-off indefinable zone, where the air’s sweet receptivity 
and the sea’s sullen self-sufficiency mingled into an 
inseparable one. 

‘‘First and foremost, your ladyship,” said Sambo 
with his hand over his waistband, ‘‘ I have to thank your 
ladyship for what can only be denominated a banquet. 
Not the sort of banquet I’ve been most used to, consist- 
ing of a vause of flowers, two or three odd knives and 
forks and a goblet of coloured water; but a banquet 
which the least you can say is, another ’elping would 
have been three quarters pain and only half pleasure.” 

‘‘ I’m glad you dined satisfactorily, you and your 
friend.” 

150 


HER LADYSHIP 151 

Her eyes were for the moment on Beiley, so that he 
had to reply : 

‘‘ Perfectly, thank you.’’ 

Oh, as to that,” said Sambo, ” there’s two sorts of 
perfectly; there’s the perfectly of Jonah inside the whale 
and the perfectly of the whale outside Jonah. Mr. Jackson 
hasn’t many words as a rule, your ladyship, and what 
he has aren’t Ai, as you can judge for yourself. There’s 
a deal of difference in gifts, your ladyship. I’ve known 
men as their best efforts in ’umour couldn’t even excite 
the smile of pity or contempt, and I’ve known a man as 
the audience begun to laugh before he’d made up his 
own mind whether it was to be ‘ The Death of Little 
Jim’ or ‘They’ve all got ’em.’ Ah, there’s very near 
as much difference in men, your ladyship, as what there 
is in dinners.” 

” I see you’ve had much experience in both men and 
dinners.” 

” I have that; and women too, your ladyship.” 

” There was only that needed to make it complete.” 

” My experience of ’em begun the same date to a day. 
My recollections go back to a time when dinners come 
pretty reg’lar and the rest of the day wasn’t all slaps, 
male and female. But now when dinner consists 
generally of a little bit on account, I find men short of 
change and women short of temper. There might be 
a conspiracy between ’em.” 

” So you have a quarrel with fortune?” 

“Not to-day, my lady; not the day I’ve met your 
ladyship.” 

“ I see you’re something of a courtier and a flatterer, 
Mr. I don’t know your name.” 

“Mr. Sambo, at your ladyship’s service; I wish it 
was Duke Sambo; he’d be yours all de same, body, 
soul an’ grease.” 

“I won’t accept you, Mr. Sambo; you’re bought, 
bought by a little dinner.” 

“ No, your ladyship, not bought, caught. I’s like de 
fish in de water. It am ’tracted fust by de wurrum, don’t 


152 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


deny; but when it hab the wurrum in it mouf an* de 
hook begin to draw, draw, den it forget de wurrum an* 
it tummy an* de base sensheral passions; it head take 
de lead; it am ’tracted only by de gempleman on de 
bank, for hisself.** 

“ Mr. Jackson doesn’t appear to have taken the bait.** 

“ He only nibbled at it. Eve swallered it; that’s where 
it is, your ladyship. I’m hooked. I’m a goner; he’s 
hopen to an engagement.” 

“Your friend appears to know you perfectly, Mr. 
Jackson.” 

Beiley was at a loss for an answer, perhaps for the 
first time. Hitherto habitual self-possession and innate 
directness had stood him in stead of readiness; now he 
was dispossessed of himself, had taken a swerve, sat 
tongue-tied. That he could neither answer a lady’s 
words nor return her look was to him who had held his 
head so high and spoken so proudly the seal of his 
humiliation. Lady Sally repeated what she had said; 
he was pushed to an answer, of the words, not the look. 

“ I doubt it.” 

“ Oh, boss!” broke in Sambo reproachfully. “ I’ve 
eat your meat, drunk your drink, borrered your money, 
introjuced you to the public, taught you impromptu 
wheezes, sung sixes to your sevens, once so nearly pro- 
voked you to a smile that you lost your temper, been 
your father, sister, mother, brother, friend, bottle-’older, 
boot-black, dresser, tooth-drawer and fac-total ; and yet 
you say I don’t know you. Oh, boss !” 

“You seem to be a general doubter,” said Lady Sally. 

The forced answer came painfully from the dry mouth. 

“ When a man doubts himself he must doubt every- 
thing else.” 

“ And when a man ’angs hisself he must ’ang every- 
thing else ? Can’t quite tumble to it, boss ; should rather 
like to be left outside that there argument.” 

“This gentleman is your employer?” said Lady 
Sally. 

“Not exactly that neither, ma’am — your ladyship; 


HER LADYSHIP 


153 


we’re equal partners in the refined-entertainment-with- 
out-coarseness company of Sambo, limited. I call ’im 
boss becos he’s atop of me so cruel in everything except 
eating, drinking, sleeping, flow of song and ’umour, 
’igh art and ’igh spirits. Count ’em on your fingers 
an’ you can’t reckon up as there’s anything left out of 
any importance; an’ yet there must be something, for 
whenever the boss chooses to sit I’m there to be sat 
on.” 

” You’re so willing to acknowledge a riper wisdom ?” 

” Not a bit o’ that, your ladyship. Like every other 
reasonable two-legged man I alius prefer my own 
opinions to anybody’s else’s, when they’re given a 
chance to spread themselves; but I mostly find myself 
tied to agree to something else before I’ve sorted ’em 
out.” 

” So that you haven’t even the dubious pleasure of 
yielding to superior argument?” 

” Which can’t give many points to the pleasure of 
yielding to superior muscle. ’Owever a duberous 
pleasure’s better than none; as the airinaut remarked 
when he parted with his parachute five mile ’igh. There 
was a fine view, especially down’ards, but he couldn’t 
enjoy it for looking out all the way for something to 
sit on.” 

“ Have you been long engaged in your present pro- 
fession ?” 

” Long, your ladyship? I sucked it in with my 

I don’t say what till one of the baby-food bounders 
has made it worth my while to be quite sure how I come 
to be fatted up into the unusual fine infant your lady- 
ship sees.” 

” And Mr. Jackson is also a veteran artist?” 

She had turned towards the peer, but again the 
commoner took up the word. 

” If you was a pro yourself, my lady, you’d never 
ask that question. Mr. Jackson — I’ve said it a many 
times to his face, so there’s no ’arm in saying it to your 
ladyship’s better face — he’d be a finished article if he 


154 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


knew one thing, but he don’t and never will; and that 
one thing’s everything — the value of bluff. If you’re 
stuck in a song, reg’lar glued to the ground, look your 
jolliest, lift your voice and swell yer chest till the 
blessed sun, moon and stars has to hitch back and give 
you room ; chant anything as comes into your ’ead, 

‘ Old ’Undred,’ ‘ Imy Skimy,’ ‘ God save the King,’ 

‘ Skittles an’ Beer.’ The more you’re out, the more the 
mugs ’ll laugh and think you’re in the middle of in. 
If you’ve got the worst of a chafRng-fight, winded, on 
your back, fair floored with a left-’ander on the promont- 
ory, look as if you liked it, lay as if you’d got down a- 
purpose to have the front-winder view of the beautiful 
blue sky; don’t stop to think ; shy back anything that’s 
’andy — the handiest’s alius the best in a scrimmage — 
‘ Get yer ’air cut,’ ‘ When did they let yer out?’ ‘ A 
little bit off the top,’ and cet’ra. The crowd ’ll wait 
just as long before they laugh as you wait before you 
rap out. If when you go round you don’t take a brown, 
keep on laughing, rattle the pennies y’ave put in your- 
self, ’oiler out ‘Thank you, sir,’ ‘Much obliged, 
ma’am,’ ‘ Mr. Bones, please to return his lordship a 
dollar out of this ’ere ’alf sov,’ ‘Shall be your way 
presently, sir;’ and the outsiders ’ll fight who’s to be 
first to show the colour of their judgment by the colour 
of their money.” 

‘‘ All that seems very easy, Mr. Jackson.” 

‘‘ Heasy, your ladyship?” said Sambo. ‘‘As easy 
as walking. Heasier, as easy as not walking, ridic’lous 
easy; so heasy that almost everybody’s too clever to 
do it.” 

“ Why don’t you take Mr. Sambo’s advice?” 

Lady Sally had turned on her chair and so pointedly 
addressed Beiley that he was precluded from leaving 
Sambo to reply for him. 

“ When I know myself to be pitiable I can’t stand 
up and claim to be admired, nor even forgiven.” 

‘‘ Wouldn’t it make some difference to know yourself 
forgiven ?” 


HER LADYSHIP 


155 


** Yes, it would make the self-condemnation the com- 
pleter. Honour isn’t a dress that can be put on one.” 

Lady Sally took out her purse. Beiley rose, them 
Sambo. 

” Shall I see you on the sands to-morrow ?” 

” For your ladyship,” said Sambo, ” Pd come with 
pleasure if I’d rather not. But I rather would.” 

Apparently not satisfied with Sambo’s promise she 
looked towards Beiley, who bowed. Her gloved hand 
put half-a-crown in Sambo’s ready palm, offered another 
to the peer’s reluctant one. The reluctant palm how- 
ever did not refuse her gift; the begrimed face ex- 
pressed nothing. 

As soon as they were in the street, ” You didn’t shine 
to-night, boss,” said Sambo. 

” Glad to hear it,” said Lord Beiley. 

” Glad? It’s man’s duty to shine. What was black- 
ing and ’air-oil given us for? Treat yerself to a rise, 
boss. I never saw you look so ’umped. If I hadn’t 
fair topped myself to-night, her ladyship ud have gone 
away with a very poor opinion of the profession, I can 
tell you. Didn’t I come out be-eautiful with my ‘ your 
ladyships ’ ? Never missed a chance, equally as you 
never took one. A few of ’em sprinkled over your 
very few and very every-day remarks, boss, ud have 
passed ’em off ; just as a few currans or carraway seeds 
turns family dough into company cake. But you see, 
the profession’s prime training for mixing on a footing 
of equality with the hupper ten. In fact a many now of 
our aristoscrats goes on the stage just a-purpose to get 
used to theirselves.” 

They stopped at the door of Beiley’s lodgings. Sambo 
laid a heavy hand on either of his companion’s shoulders. 

” Boss !” he said with as much emphasis as brevity. 
“Well?” 

“ I should like to be face to face like this ’ere with 
Lord Beiley. It ud be supper to that dinner.” 

“Supposing you were?” 

“ First I’d tell him what I thought about him — it 


156 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


wouldn’t be all eaudy-C’logne — then knock him silly — 
that wouldn’t take much — and leave him in the gutter to 
chew it over. Boss, that’s a straight-up sort o’ woman. 
What do you say?” 

” I quite agree with you.” 

” Boss, what d’you think’s my prevalent feeling at 
the present moment?” 

” I don’t know.” 

” Guess.” 

” I can’t.” 

”Try.” 

“Not I.” 

“It’s this: that to gain such a woman’s love I’d 
renounce my career and beer, and sink for ever into 
private life and teetotalism. You don’t believe me? I 
would solemnly. I’m not drunk.” 

“ Good-night,” said Lord Beiley. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


HO ! 

While Sambo was helping Beiley to dress in the 
afternoon of the following day, he was unusually quiet. 
Indeed during the whole of the time that he was mixing 
in a saucer the peer’s professional complexion he was 
entirely silent; a space of quite five minutes. But he 
stopped a moment in the process of daubing it on, when 
Beiley’s face was partly natural, partly artistic, and said : 

'‘Boss! What d’you say to Deborah for a lady’s 
Christian name?” 

"Why do you ask?” 

"Can’t say; unless it’s because one woman’s face 
sets you thinking of another woman’s. But candidly?” 

Beiley made no reply. Perhaps he was mentally com- 
paring ladies’ Christian names. 

"You think it rather too scriptural for common or 
garden use? I can’t say but what I myself” — He 
went on smearing the sooty disguise over with his 
hand — " And yet ' Another plate o’ that there nicely 
underdone beef, Deborah ’ — eh ? Or ' A nice afternoon 
for a bit of a walk round, Deborah’ — eh? Or 'You 
don’t ’appen to know where I’ve mislaid my pipe, De- 
borah, do you?’ Or 'Just one more o’ them nobby 
kisses of yours, Deborah ’ — eh?” He stood off a little 
way to judge the effect of his handiwork. " After all, 
when you come to try it, I don’t see as you can’t fit 
any decent words to Deborah just as well as if it was 
Sally. I think it’ll do.” 

He washed his hands and thoughtfully smoked a pipe 
while the mess dried upon the lordly face. 

157 


158 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ Tm trying to int’rest myself in myself, boss,** he 
said gloomily. 

“ I hope you succeed.** 

‘‘ No, Tm like a man as can see the end of his own 
nose; he*s not int’rested, he*s bored. I wonder what*s 
up with me.** 

“ Possibly my stout last night didn’t agree with the 
hotel wines.** 

“They didn’t. But it isn’t that; I know them 
symptoms.** 

When next he spoke he had the lordly nose between 
thumb and finger, barber-wise, and was toning down 
the over-done complexion with a bit' of paper. 

“ If a young woman was to say to you, ‘ You’ll come 
back some day; I shall wait for you,* how would it 
strike you?** 

“What do you bead?** said Beiley, the nasal letters 
blocked by the pressure of that finger and thumb. 

“Would it strike you she was playing the game? 
Or wouldn’t you consider she was some’ow getting 
an advantage of you?** 

“Why?** 

“ That’s just what I’m asking you. Would you 
think it was her fault or yours if you couldn’t drive 
them words out your mind?** 

“Yours, for dot actig od theb.** 

“ Would yourself, boss?** 

Beiley blessed the concealing pigment. 

“ Silence gives consent. Boss, I made sure you’d be 
of my side and you’re all of hers. You’ll do beautiful. 
Look!** 

He held the mirror so that Beiley might catch the 
reflection of his artistry, but the latter turned away, 
saying : 

“ Thank you, 1*11 take your word for it.** 

They went out. The sky overhead was cloudless and 
yet not clear; the sun gleamed fiercely, yet seemed at 
times to forget to assert himself; the day was still and 
sultry, yet every now and then delicate ladies shivered 


HO! 


159 


under their summer muslins. The sea sullenly incom- 
ing was mainly of a leaden colour, streaked with ob- 
scure red-purples and darkening at the horizon into 
obscurer violets. A woman’s pink dress glared again; 
a boat in the half-distance was of an intense white, that 
presently was not so intense ; a smoke-spouting steamer 
further out was almost lost in the haze. On the 
southern horizon over both land and sea dark clouds 
lurked like thieves. Many day-trippers had arrived 
and the sands swarmed with a parti-coloured throng. 
Bare-shanked women, up-trussed children paddled and 
shrieked on the edge of the tide ; a few daring ones 
had taken bathing machines and gone in knee-deep. 
Donkey-riders and donkey-drivers went to and fro 
with more commotion than locomotion. The faint 
hoarse singing of a Pierrot quartette mingled with 
the intrusive bawl of rival photographers, the loud in- 
sistence of hawkers, keepers of Aunt Sallies and other 
purveyors to man’s needs or luxuries. There was a 
band playing somewhere, and the sound of the bass 
drum was like the thud of far-off thunder. 

Sambo and Beiley plied their joint trade and did very 
well. The afternoon wore on and Lady Sally did not 
appear. 

“ I’m afraid,** said Sambo, “ as her ladyship*s going 
to disappoint ’erself of a musical treat.** 

Beiley had no such fear, no such hope. 

After a while Sambo said again : 

‘‘ She’ll none come, there’s a storm brewing. Let’s 
go and have a wet of Bass’s; I’m fair hoarse with all 
this chanting.” 

Beiley did not go, did not answer. Why? I don’t 
know. There are men who being unable to see down a 
man’s gullet into his stomach think to see through a 
man’s actions into his mind. What he did he did with 
his eyes either upon the much trodden sands at his feet 
or on the ever darkening trouble of the horizon. Still 
he knew when a horsewoman on a grey horse came 
noiselessly up behind him over the soft ground; knew 


i6o A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

as well as Sambo who stood opposite and kept ever 
on the look-out; knew before a shilling chinked down 
into his hat among the pennies and ha’pennies. Sambo 
was singing with appropriate action that favourite comic 
song : 

“ Booze don’t agree 
So well with me 
This morning as last night.” 

But on seeing the lady he broke off with fine tact 
between the diagnosis of head and of stomach, and 
rattled through the chorus to his own brilliant squib- 
work on the bones. 

“ I’m never again on the loose, 

Since tippling is such for me, 

Unless I alter my views ; 

Or I’m very much mistaken. 

“If I’m inquired for I’ve joined the moderate drunk- 
ards, sign of the Half Rasher of Bacon. 

“No, lushing go to the deuce. 

Since it is such for me. 

I’m never again on the booze, 

Unless I’m very much mistaken, 

Or unless I alter my views. 

Or Scotch is too much for me.” 

Whence he glided from the bones and the comic to 
the serio-comic and the banjo as easily and naturally 
as the lark changes from his soaring to his descending 
notes. 

“ Give back the s’rimps what I’ve bought yer. 

Them choc’late creams give back. 

Which I’d never a forked out if I’d fought yer 
So soon was to give me the sack.” 

He looked up at the sky and hoped the rain would 
hold off until business was w^orse. 

“ Give back the wets what I’ve got for yer. 

An’ the little suffins to bite. 

When I put pennies in the slot for yer, 

Yer didn’t weigh up so light. 


HO I i6i 

Seventeen stone, ’leven an’ three quarters; not so bad 
for a bantam weight.” 

Lady Sally seemed to listen with attention, but it 
could not be known from her face what she thought of 
the singer’s style or selection. 

” And now your ladyship would, I doubt not, like 
to ’ear once more Mr. Jackson’s favourite and much 
admired ‘ Dinah.’ ” 

” Very much,” said Lady Sally. 

Sambo tum-tummed a prelude on his banjo and his 
lordship had to follow with his voice. His eyes wandered 
over the dark waters; his mind was upon the woman 
at his back. Her horse, fidgetting and fretting under 
her, made the nervous bystanders edge away to the 
other side of the circle, but only her firm handling of 
the reins shewed that she was aware of his existence. 
Her pale calm face was as void of approval or disap- 
proval as if she had been listening to drawing-room 
music in a drawing-room. 

I fell in lub wid Dinah 
Cos I nuffin else to do. 

I fought nufhn could be finer 
Dan coo until she coo. 

I fell in lub wid Dinah 

It was a loud crash of thunder upon a flash of light- 
ning that broke his singing; and as immediate as the 
thunder on the lightning came the heavy rain upon the 
thunder. The audience had melted away, as though 
dissoluble in water, all but the woman on horseback. 
Beiley after the momentary check continued his song. 
Sambo, who had put up his shoulders and made as if to 
run, remained also, glad at heart that the boss appeared 
to know for once which side his bread was buttered. 

“ So I send an’ tell de jiner, 

Br’er Cupid, bring de glue.” 

By then save those three there was nobody on the 
sands but one amphibious bathing-machine man. In 
the distance, almost blotted out of sight by the rain- 

II 


i 62 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


mist, were a few umbrellas and the flying backs of 
women with their gowns over their heads, of crying 
clinging children and of men whose only defence against 
the weather was the up-turn of a coat-collar. The 
rest were huddled moistly together in the shelters, 
cowered under the pier, in and under the bathing- 
machines, against walls and fences, anywhere where 
there was the promise of shelter to one square foot of 
dripping cotton or saturated woollen. Every few seconds 
the air was filled by a momentary white flame that re- 
vealed nothing; then again the sudden twilight of 
scudding clouds and pelting rain. 

“ I fell out wid Dinah 

Cos I nufhn else to do ; 

For change am more diviner 
Dan dat eternal coo.’^ 

I cannot tell you what Lady Sally’s thoughts were, 
any more than I can tell you whether her horse objected 
most to the banjo or the thunder, to the comic intention 
or the deplorable execution. The sands were aswim; 
where it was not white the sea was of a colour with the 
clouds; and still Beiley sang his pitiful song to the 
accompaniment of the thunder and the rain and 
Sambo’s tum-tumming all out of tune; and while he 
sang, though his eyes were fixed on the sea, his thoughts 
were all on the woman behind him. With what pale 
tranquillity she listened, unruffled by the restiveness 
of her horse, he knew more perfectly than if he had had 
it before him, for the idea was unmixed with any 
material irrelevance. 

“ There’s another verse, I believe,” said Lady Sally. 

The singer was constrained to proceed. 

“Again I will lub Dinah 

When I nuffin else to do ; 

Her smile will seem de finer 
For dat little interloo. 

As de white upon de china 
For de tiny dab o’ blue. 

So I’ll fall in wid Dinah 
When Fnufiin else to ” 


HO! 


163 


All at once, even upon that indecisive word and note, 
whether Lady Sally was willing to defer the long-drawn 
conclusion to drier weather and therefore relaxed the 
compulsion of her hands, or whether that last thunder- 
clap and the animal’s sudden start took her preoccupa- 
tion by surprise, anyhow off galloped he with his tail 
to the storm. Some scatterings of the wet sand he 
spurned struck Beiley smartly in that defenceless part 
which lies betwixt hair and collar; but the singer did 
not need the hint; he had ceased on the instant. He 
tossed his banjo into the air and drove his foot through 
it Rugby-fashion as it touched the ground. 

“ Stosh that!” cried Sambo. “Look what you’ve 
been and done !” He picked up the broken instrument. 
“ You’ve put your foot through ten shillings’ worth of 
the primest music in the land. There’s no sense in the 
state of mind that destroys pawnable property. That’s 
where the training of the stage comes in ; it teaches a 
man to express passion without banging anything but 
bladders; to ramp like a roaring lion up and down 
eight foot by three of boarding without sending his 
elber into the cottage wall on the prompt side, or his 
toe through the granite rock on the right. I’m with 
you if you like to say, ‘ Be dashed to the storm that has 
done us out of another dinner and another dollar ’, but 
I keep my feelings and my banjo separate. Where are 
you going?” 

“ For a walk,” said Beiley. 

“For a swim, you mean. I’m not ’aving any; I 
get more walking than I want on dry land. Look at 
it!” 

But Beiley stayed neither to look nor to combat his 
partner’s disinclination ; he walked off down the sands 
in the contrary direction to that which Lady Sally had 
so abruptly taken. Sambo, with the broken banjo under 
one arm, the whole one under the other, stood for a 
second or two looking after him betwixt mortification 
and puzzlement, then turned towards the town, the dis- 
consolateness of his wet outside modified by the near 


164 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


anticipation of a wet inside. Before he gained the pave- 
ment the rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun. 

The sea, now at the full, reiterated its furious cavalry 
rushes, which each time seemed to threaten a general 
victory of water over dry land. Beiley walked beside 
it, careless of its up-surging advances and its violent 
retreats, engrossed by his own petty internal tempest, 
until he came to a watercourse. Our intellectual emo- 
tional self is mated with a partner, fleshly and sane, 
which takes less than a half-share in the common 
ecstasies and despairs. This latter part of his lordship 
would appear, probably with some exertion, to have got 
its opinion of the practical inconvenience of wet feet 
added to wet body heard through the shrill insistence 
of what for the time being was predominant; he turned 
back. Not only had the rain ceased, but the sun, 
struggling through the broken clouds, lighted up with 
gleams uncertainly fierce the white wave-crests — white 
crests to dun waves — and the water-drops on the coarse 
blue-green grass of the sand-hillocks. By magic as it 
almost seemed the sands were alive again with a damp 
and bedraggled mob. Here might be a child crying 
with the tooth-ache, there a woman who could not forget 
her damaged feathers and silks, but the mass of them 
were even more obstinately determined than before to 
get what fleeting enjoyment they might out of ‘‘ three 
shies a penny ’’ and the German Ocean. Beiley 
was turning back towards the solitude that was behind 
him. 

‘‘ Ho!” 

At that ringing imperative cry close at hand he 
stopped. 

” Every one that’s thirsty I” 

He looked. There was a man standing between him 
and the turmoil of the sea, with his hand up to bespeak 
attention. 

” Come and have a drink!” 

Many turned, some in surprise, some perhaps with 
a ready-made thirst, others out of mere holiday idleness. 


HO ! 165 

‘‘Now then! Who’s thirsty? Who’ll accept my 
offer? It won’t cost you anything.” 

‘‘I’m alius thirsty,” said a low fellow with a blotchy 
complexion peering through a stubbly beard. ‘‘ What’s 
yer offer?” 

“Water.” 

“ Oh, water be damned !” 

“Nay, there’s no damnation in it, not a drop; it’s 
perfectly pure water, fresh from the well of salvation. 
Will you try it?” 

The fellow shook his head and drew a little further off. 

“ Milk then? I’ve milk on offer; the sincere milk of 
the word.” 

“Milk don’t suit my stomach; I can’t disgest it.” 

“ Nay, if your stomach’s so much out of order I’ve 
some wine that’s the best of stomachics.” 

“ Wine? I don’t mind if I do; just a But what 

sort o’ wine?” 

“ The wine of Cana.” 

“ I don’t know it,” said the man. Then muttering, 
“ I just thought ’e was ’aving me on,” he slunk back 
among the bystanders. 

“ The drinks I proffer you, friends, won’t taste so 
hot as your drams of pleasure, nor so sugary as your 
draughts of ease, nor so self-flattering as your sips of 
knowledge, but I guarantee that they will both please 
your palate and appease your thirst; they won’t leave 
you drier than before. There’s no salt mixed with their 
satisfaction. And they won’t cost you a cent. Here’s 
neither tithe, pew-rent nor collection.” 

“Good lawk!” said a loud girl, laughing, “it’s a 
man in his mother’s old frock.” 

“ Never mind my frock, sister; I want your ears, not 
your eyes.” 

And yet there was something for the eye too in the 
speaker’s pale shaven emotional face, backed by the 
leaden mutability of the sea ; the face of an enthusiast, 
thin and ascetic, with glowing eyes cloistered under a 
high white forehead. He was bareheaded, was perhaps 


i66 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


about thirty-five years of age, wore sandals and a 
monkish gown girt with a cord. 

“ Look I Yon's the water of this world." His finger 
was towards the dark turbulent sea. “It is canopied 
by the storm, bedded on unrest, bitter with discon- 
tent; its joy a mere tumult of intoxication, its solace a 
perpetual thirst, its crowning gift death. There is a 
river the streams whereof shall make glad the city of 
God." 

“ It's a bit of the Popish plot," said a jealous Pro- 
testant, who thought that the hood did make the monk. 

“ I am in a plot, it is true; I have plotted with your 
conscience, I have conspired with your fears, have made 
secret fellowship with your hopes and desires." 

The Protestant waited for no more; he drew off with 
his wife and children before they should come under the 
magic, older, stronger than popery even, of a persuasive 
voice. The clouds had got reinforcement, the sun had 
given up fighting against them ; only through some 
weak place in their attack he shot vertically down a 
scattering of fierce rays. 

“Friends, I've a very good opinion of the destiny 
of this world of ours; because it had the best of begin- 
nings. Well begun, you know, is half done." 

“ How funny 'e talks," said a hugely fat woman with 
plum-coloured face and cherry-coloured ribbons. “ I 
don’t see as 'e’s got anythink to sell unless it’s 
charicters." 

“One o* them phonigraphs as feels yer bumps?" 
said her friend. “ Niver a bit on't; 'e's a bathin'- 
machine chap, I reckon, tryin’ to push trade." 

“Thank yer, mester," said the plum-coloured one, 
“ I'm not 'avin' non. There’s too much of me to w^esh 
it all, even in the sea. If my 'and goes as far as your 
eyes does, I'm satisfied. 'Ave some nuts, ’Arriett." 

“ ‘ In the beginning God created the heaven and the 
earth.’ " 

“ Give uz your authority for that," said a man with 
an argumentative voice. 


HO ! 167 

The speaker took a little worn book from his bosom 
and kissed it reverently. 

“That’s only ’earsay,” said the man; “I wouldn’t 
’ang a cat on ’earsay.’’ A man with a sallow mous- 
tached face, in a decent black coat; might be a Notting- 
ham twist-hand. 

“ Well, what does authority mean but hearsay? We 
all live upon hearsay; you who’re so scientifically cock- 
sure, just as much as I who am so reverently receptive.” 

“ Yer don’t mean to say yer believe as the lions didn’t 
eat Daniel?” 

“I do; I’d believe, if this book affirmed it, that 
Danief ate the lions. I hear a masculine guffaw, a 
feminine tehee. Well, friends. I’ve my equal revenge; 
I laugh and the ladylike part of me titters when I see 
you so agape to accept the unestablished.” 

“ I sh’d like a game o’ skittles for a quart a damn 
sight better nor this,” said a rough fellow in shabby 
tweeds and billycock, and moved off with his rough 
mate in shabby tweeds and cap. 

“ My gospel is the gospel of my father and mother, 
my forefathers and foremothers. Your belief will be 
obsolete in another generation.” 

“So long’s it lasts while I’m dead,” said the twist- 
hand, “what’s the odds?” 

“You won’t be dead. Behold, I show you a 
mystery.” 

“ Any road I shan’t be alive; there’s nayther hist’ry 
nor myst’ry about that.” 

“‘Thou fool!”’ 

“ Fool yoursen !” 

“ I beg your pardon, I was quoting from this book.” 

“Granted, an’ beg yourn; I were quotin’ Narrer 
Marsh.” ^ 

“Let’s go before the collection,” muttered a pinch- 
mouthed woman to a flabby-cheeked man. 

“There isn’t any collection; he said so,” answered 
the man. 

^ An unfashionable street in Nottingham. 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


1 68 

“You can’t ever be sure; it’s called by so many 
names.” 

“ Everything that lives,” said the preacher, “ suffers 
a cycle of changes, from seed to flower, from flower to 
fruit, from fruit to seed again.” 

“What,” answered the twist-hand, “if the flower 
withers afore it fruits, or the fruit wizzens afore it seeds, 
or the seed rots afore it spruts ? What becomes of yer 
bicycle then?” 

“True; and that’s why I’m here. There is a sin 
unto death.” 

At which words instead of the black cloud behind 
the speaker’s head was a white instantaneous glow. 
Immediately the thunder crashed and again the rain 
fell, with that suddenness which attends the coming 
of an expected thing. Again the sands were cleared; 
besides the peer and the fanatic nobody was left but one 
man, serious-looking, but in the face rather than the 
dress, and a woman, elderly, narrow-browed, care- 
worn, yet with the sparkle of enthusiasm in her eyes. 
The fanatic put his book back into his bosom, went down 
on his knees, in the midst of a puddle as it befell, re- 
mained there a minute with closed eyes and moving lips, 
then rose. As he moved off Beiley stood directly in his 
way, stood because impulse he had none sufficient to 
get the better of inertia. The common eagerness to seek 
shelter from the rain did not affect him; he could not 
become any wetter, any more disconsolate than he- was. 
The rain streamed from his ridiculous hat into his ridic- 
ulous collar, from his foolish coat-tails to his absurd 
heels, gathered about his farcical eyes and mouth, 
dripped from his besmeared nose, chin, finger-ends. 

“ Well, what do you think of it?” said the preacher. 

“ I can’t swallow your Daniel.” 

“ But a man doesn’t live by what he doesn’t swallow. 
You want to believe, don’t you?” 

“ No, there’s no sense in wanting to believe what you 
don’t believe.” 

“ But you must believe in something.” 


HO! 


169 


I don’t know that I do.” 

‘‘ You must.” 

Must,” echoed the woman. 

‘‘ If he must he does,” said the man behind. 

“A man can’t be saved,” said the preacher, unless 
he believes in something. To believe in nothing is 
death.” 

” That’s the natural end,” said the man. 

“ Behold the crown of life 1” said the woman. 

” What shall it profit you,” said the preacher, ” to 
gain everything else and lose that?” 

‘‘ What should I believe?” 

‘‘What you’re obliged to believe,” said the man 
behind, who had come a little nearer on his left. 

“Yes, obliged !” said the woman — she was now close 
by on his right — in a cooing pleading voice with 
clasped hands and tears in her eyes; “ obliged ! Kind 
Master ! dear Lord ! sweet Saviour ! ‘ At the name of 

Jesus every knee shall bow.’ ” 

Beiley looked at the one and looked at the other, like 
a man taken between reason and love, till the lightning 
flashed and blotted them both out. 

“ I believe in a woman,” he said. 

“ That’s something,” said the fanatic; “ that’s a lot. 
Oh, infinitely better than if you believed in a man ; who 
might be yourself, and one can’t live upon one’s self. 
A woman ! Then you believe in the embodiment of 
long-suffering and self-sacrifice. Brother, if ever in 
your wanderings you come across one who is man 
and woman too, you will have found the perfect one ; 
man in strength, woman in love; man to dare, woman 
to endure; man to be wroth, woman to forbear.” 

“Man of Sorrows! mighty Saviour! sweet Bride- 
groom !” murmured the woman with clasped hands and 
streaming eyes. 

“There isn’t such a thing as a miracle,” said the 
man behind; “ or else everything is a miracle. Every- 
thing or nothing.” 

“I must go,” said the preacher. “If I get wet 


170 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


through my book will get wet. And it was a woman’s 
gift. Gooibye.” 

He strode off across the water-possessed sands. When 
Beiley turned the man was gone from behind and the 
woman from his side. He almost doubted whether 
he had really beheld and heard, or had but dreamed 
circumstantially. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE SHADOW 

When he was weary of treading the heavy sodden 
sands, weary of contending with the wind, the rain and 
his distracted thoughts, he returned to his rooms. A 
letter was awaiting him which had come by the after- 
noon post. It had the Mansfield post-mark and was 
addressed to Mr. Jackson in a refined womanly hand, 
but the enclosure was the writing of a child. 

‘‘ Dear Jack, 

“ Every body dusent for I don’t so please come 
back soon and don’t dammidge something I can’t spell. 
I want you to see my white lilys and red roses the sweet 
williams are still in flour, what a funny word yacth is 
to spell the t always forgets where it ought to go. 
Mother laught once yesterday. A lady has given me 
another dolly she opens and shuts her eyes and wants 
you to be introdust so please come back very very soon. 

“ Your affectionate 

“ Bertha.” 

The urgency of his preparations, the tyranny of his 
regrets had to make room for a little dwelling with a 
mixture of feelings upon that childish scrawl. But he 
must change wet for dry, wash the disguise from his 
face and settle with his landlord. He put a ten-pound 
note in Sambo’s hand as compensation for the broken 
banjo and partnership. Having abundance for to-day 
and to-morrow it was not in Sambo to be inconsolable 
about anything, but he felt at least as much sorrow as 
he expressed at the sudden dissolution of fellowship. 

171 


172 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘What's amiss with the place, boss? It’s reckoned 
’ealthy. At least there’s a sight of people comes here 
with nothing the matter with ’em a-purpose to get 
cured of it; and I never heard of any as didn’t. Feel 
anything wrong with your ’eart or ’ead, your liver or 
your bacon ?” 

“ Nothing,” said the peer. 

“And your pocket seems ’ealthy too, appearantly,” 
said Sambo with a down-glance at the bank-note in his 
hand. “What more can you want? Change of hair? 
Well, I’m thinking of going to Doncaster for the St. 
Leger. Why not stop and go with me, and try whether 
the musical taste of the Yorkshire tykes is any less 
abroad at ’ome than abroad?” 

Beiley only shook his head. 

“ What’ll Lady Sally say? I thought she seemed to 
hing on to your lips, in a way of speaking you know; 
the sort of melancholy far-away mope folks has on their 
faces when they’re listening to something full-fig on 
the pianner, and dursn’t get their ’ands ready to clap 
for fear of showing they don’t know whether them divine 
strains is the beginning of the end or only the end of 
the beginning. ’Er ’orse though didn’t seem to share 
her opinion. Blame me, if I didn’t think he’d have 
took his revenge with ’is ’oofs on somebody’s dinner- 
basket. But setting him apart, boss — and it’s feasable 
for you to say he’s a vicious hignorant brute — what’ll 
Lady Sally do?” 

“You must try to console her.” 

“ I can’t, boss. I’ll admit, if you force me, as Lady 
Sally has an admiration for me; but it’s the cold ad- 
miration of the intellect not the just-out-of-the-oven en- 
thusiasm of the heart. I don’t know as I could depend 
on shillings from Lady Sally, let alone dollars.” 

“ Sorry, Sambo; but it has to be.” 

“ If it has to be, it’s no good me buzzing again it. 
Call at the Sow in Sunshine if you ’appen to be at 
Doncaster for the races. If you don’t see me — which 
you mayn’t if I’m out of sight — any’ow you’ll hear about 


THE SHADOW 


173 


me. Meanwhile you’ll find their ’ome-b rewed thruble 
’xcellent.” 

They shook hands and went their several ways, Sambo 
to get his note changed, Beiley to the railway station. 
He hastened down the short length of road. His dis- 
guise being off he felt as though everybody knew him 
for the defaulting bridegroom, the suspected lunatic. 
A train stood in the station with hissing engine and 
gathering passengers, ready to start; the Lindum special 
he was told. He set his mind upon escaping by it and 
hurried to the booking-office. 

“ First class for Lindum, if you please.” 

” No booking for Lindum till six thirty-five to-morrow 
morning, sir,” said the clerk. 

“There’s a train for Lindum now in the station.” 

“ That’s a special, sir*” 

“ Give me a special ticket then.” 

“ You can only get them at Lindum, sir.” 

“ How much more is it than an ordinary ticket? I’ll 
pay the difference.” 

“ It’s two shillings less, sir.” 

“Then why can’t I pay more and go by it? Is it 
full?” 

“ No, sir; but that’s the regulation.” 

“ Then your directors insist on their customers travel- 
ling further and paying less? They seem to have the 
business ways of ” 

Of that unhappy class for which according to popular 
judgment he was qualified. The word stopped him, as 
perhaps nothing else merely verbal could have done, 
from arguing the methods of a railway company. But 
a man touched him slyly under the elbow and so drew 
him a few yards apart. 

“ Do yer want to buy a return ticket for Lindum?” 
he whispered. 

“Yes.” 

“Yer can ’ave mine for a shilling; I’m staying the 
week-end.” 

The exchange of shilling and ticket was forthwith 


174 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


made, and Beiley passed the barrier and took his fraudul- 
ent seat in the train just as it was on the move. During 
the journey the sun set in a turbulent admixture of clouds 
and glory, and it was fully night when he arrived at 
Lindum. To the collector he tendered half-a-sovereign 
in lieu of ticket. 

“ You'd no right to travel without a ticket," said the 
collector; “you're liable to be charged, you know. 
How did you manage to pass through ?" 

“ On false pretences," said Lord Beiley. 

And the collector was so much struck by the naked 
simplicity of the plea that he gave the change and 
passed on. 

Beiley's purpose, deliberately pieced together in the 
train, was to pass the night at one of the Lindum hotels, 
cross the country next morning to Liverpool and thence 
sail into concealment. But like the exulting ship which 
is by turns the pet, the plaything and the prey of the 
billows, so a man's resolve boasts itself upon sufferance 
of underlying passions, which sometimes sleep, some- 
times surge, now support or even speed, and again vex, 
scatter and destroy. He took the first turn that pre- 
sented itself, though evidently leading away from the 
main streets and the better hotels. He did not turn 
again and in about half-an-hour found himself outside 
the city's limits. The lamps, the houses, his fellow- 
men were behind him, and before him, so far as he could 
see, nothing but an uncertain road, the sombre fields, 
the cloud-peopled sky and night. 

He walked at an even pace, neither slow nor fast; 
foreseeing, dreading what he was journeying towards, 
desirous of return, but not daring to show his cowardice 
even to himself. So on he went, and ever as he walked 
darker grew the prospect. It was a night of spectral 
undetermined shades. Such thrice-strained light as 
escaped through the clouds’ dark moving masses was 
but enough to mark them off from the solid blackness 
of the earth; the glimmer that uncertainly divided the 
next few yards of splashy road from the inseparable 


THE SHADOW 


175 


darknesses on either hand seemed to come from the 
ground itself. The frequent jagged lightning that 
played on the horizon gave a leer of cruelty and falsity 
to night’s frown ; the wind filled the air with voices that 
threatened, voices that forbade; each hedge-row tree as 
he approached it hinted itself against the sky with a 
large indistinctness, appearing to rise out of the ground 
like a gesticulative ghost. And the basis of his self- 
assurance had been shattered. 

Until his late meetings with Lady Sally his breach of 
faith had appeared to him, according to the shiftings of 
his mood, as an escapade — a sorry escapade, it is true, 
not to be boasted of — as an act of gross folly, almost of 
madness, or again as an inexcusable lapse from manner- 
liness. At length he understood that it was a crime; 
against her; and what he was perhaps last in seeing, 
was certainly most surprised to see, against himself. 
Each tree wore the black face of his self-judgment; the 
clouds were as cursory spectators, derisive, condemn- 
atory; the lightning was like arrows of introspection 
aimed from without. 

Hour after hour he walked, surrounded by those ex- 
ternal signallings of his own doubts, fears, reproaches. 
He passed through villages, but the shadowy houses 
gave him no more sense of fellowship, were hardly more 
visible to him than the shadowy hedge-rows. The 
scattered clouds joined hands and covered the sky; the 
wind had dropped, the rain fell. It was the dead of 
night; road, hedge, field, were but one black blot. Only 
upwards could he see a little further into the obscurity 
than he could reach with his hands. He walked by 
chance, sometimes on one side of the road, sometimes 
on the other, stumbling over unseen obstacles, splash- 
ing into a ditch, colliding with a hedge; from which 
once and again a startled bird flew out, vociferous, 
unseen. 

In the midst of it he heard a dead sound on the soft 
road indistinctly separable from his own footsteps. He 
looked and saw moving in line with his own motions a 


176 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


shade, uncertainly human in form. It did not speak. 
They walked side by side, he and the shade. Sometimes 
he doubted whether it were not his own shadow, the 
footsteps were so hard to separate. At last at a turn in 
the road it spoke, in a man’s rough voice with a country- 
like accent. 

‘‘ Good-night.” 

“Good-night,” answered Beiley. “You were long 
in speaking.” 

“Was I, sir? Mebbe. I’d my tho’ts.” And Beiley 
had had his, though he did not say so. “You’re out 
late to-night, sir.” 

“ I might retort, no later than yourself.” 

‘‘Ay, but ” 

The answer was broken ; though perhaps it was only 
incomplete because the face was unseen. They walked 
a stretch in silence, side by side, step for step. At 
last Beiley said, just to brush through the gathering 
constraint of such a fellowship : 

“ A dreary night.” 

“ What meks yer think so, sir?” 

“The rain, I suppose.” 

“ It don’t touch me.” 

“ And the darkness.” 

“ If ’t ’ad been light I mun a been at work, and then 
I couldn’t ” 

The break was again the signal for a space of silence, 
as side by side they walked, neither seeing the other’s 
face. At last the man said in a tone between revolving 
and resolving : 

“ I mayn’t hae another chance.” 

That was all; he continued walking as before, what 
contention or indecision there might be outwardly 
expressed being as invisible as the workings of his 
mind. After a while he said again, in a voice resolved 
but low : 

“ Beg yer pardon, sir, but I don’t know yer voice, I 
can’t see yer face; if ever we meet i’ the light I’ve noat 
to reconize yer by. Are yo i’ love with a woman ?” 


THE SHADOW 17; 

The man waited for an answer and presently the 
answer came. 

“I am.” 

“ Tm i’ that form that I mun speak to somebody. 
There’s a thing happened to-night as is too much for 
one heart to hold. There’s summat i’ yer voice as gies 
me confidence.” 

He paused for a minute, as though to make separation 
between that and this, between the vestibule and the 
shrine. 

” She gied me a kiss.” 

They walked on. The silence seemed to brood over 
what had been said. Out of the darkness the man had 
made for himself a little tabernacle of light and love. 
Beiley said, but not at once : 

” I wish you both happiness.” 

“Thank yer, sir, thank yer; for her an’ for me. I 
am happy. Noat can now befall to mek my happiness 

sorry. Unless — unless oat was to happen ” His 

voice which had been shaken by a momentary doubt 
recovered its solemn cheerfulness. “ But e’en that ud 
be by the will o’ God.” 

They walked on. 

“ I walked sixteen mile out,” said the shadow with the 
man’s voice; “this is the nint o’ the sixteen back. 
I’ve seven more.” 

He spoke as though the miles were so many links in 
a precious chain. 

“ It’s a long way,” said Beiley. 

“ I wish it had bin twice as fur. I should have had 
so much longer to hope and fear afore, so much longer 
to dwell on’t and to wunner afterwards.” 

Again they walked in silence. Doubtless the man 
was dwelling on it, dwelling and wondering. 

“ May I ask your name?” said Beiley. 

‘‘Jack ” 

But the rest of the name, disguised perhaps by the 
broadness of the accent, he did not catch. On they 
walked. A strange fancy came over Beiley amid the 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


178 

deceptions of the night, when what is is concealed by 
what is not ; he felt as though it were himself who was 
walking by his side; himself with narrower opportunities 
and a larger fulfilment ; the himself that might have been, 
that ought to have been. So illusion-wrapped did he 
become, that there was a time, as they walked and 
walked, when the shadow was as substantial to him as 
the fact; he thought the .shadow’s thoughts, shared in 
his wonder and delight. But his actual despair was 
there too, poisoning the sources of life, transmuting its 
gold with a worse alchemy to fumes and dross. 

‘‘ Woman’s a delicate-made thing, easy offended, easy 
hurt.” 

So said the shade with hushed voice, as though he 
feared that even at that distance mere breath might hurt, 
might offend. Beiley said neither yea nor nay. On 
they went. 

‘‘ I mun bear it i’ mind.” 

You will.” 

They measured several miles together, the shadow 
and he, with no more words than have been written ; 
until at length the shadow said with perhaps a slight 
slackening of his stride ; 

” God bless yer both, sir; her and yo.” 

A tremour shot through Lord Beiley, of joy and 
agony, at that solemn putting of himself and her to- 
gether, as though it made momentary marriage of their 
names. He knew that the time of parting had come, 
and on an impulse gave utterance to something of the 
wildness of his thoughts. 

” Is her name Sally?” he said. 

Some of his agitation seemed to be communicated to 
the shadow and its words were broken. 

“Who are yer? How hae yer gotten inside me? 
What meks yer to say that?” 

“ Because my name’s Jack too.” 

“ Ah? And yo come from her?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then yo know.” 


THE SHADOW 


179 


The shadow’s feet came to a stand. 

“ Yo’re for straight forrards, sir?” 

“Yes,” said Beiley, as though his path were mapped. 
“Then good-night.” 

“ Good-night.” 

Two hands belonging to undistinguishable figures 
met in the dark, one rough and laborious, the other 
smooth and delicate, then separated for ever. 


CHAPTER XX 


UNDERGROUND FIRE 

Lord Beiley went straight forward, as though his 
path were mapped. The rain ceased, the clouds fell 
away, day was at hand; for the hedge on his left was 
just perceptibly less in the shade than that on his right. 
First there was the long slow unreckonable increase of 
light; and then that daily miracle, the sudden triumph- 
ant forth-flashing of the sun ; but within his soul 
there was no defeat of the night. Birds awoke and 
shook out their damp feathers; beasts arose from their 
hedge-side lairs, stretched themselves, sniffed at the 
dank herbage and began to browze; men came forth 
with to-day upon their faces, having slept off yesterday. 
He alone still lived in the day that was dead, suffered 
from its hostile weather, drank its unrefreshing water, 
ate its unnourishing bread. 

He came to a town, but whether it was large or small 
did not appear, for the way that he took, or rather the 
way that took him, glanced aside from the thick of the 
houses, led to a bridge over a river and so out again 
into the open country. . He knew the river again at a 
glance and acknowledged its presence with a shiver, 
which may have been partly owing to the chilliness of 
the morning; for the sun was already overcast, and a 
variable breeze that now contended and now flagged 
blew out of the south-west. He had no clear under- 
standing that he had walked that road before, neverthe- 
less he knew that there would come a juncture, in a few 
yards, a few miles, many yards, many miles, when he 

i8o 


UNDERGROUND FIRE 


i8i 


would turn on his right. The juncture came, after a 
time long or short, and he turned on his right. By 
dint of bodily fatigue he had succeeded — if success it 
can be called — in numbing his higher sensibilities. He 
still felt, but as in a narcotic dream wherein the fleshly 
pain was a confused one with the mental distress. He 
saw everything, reasoning upon nothing; and ever he 
had that odd sense obscurely anticipatory of what was 
yet out of sight. 

He passed through one village and yet another. At 
the second village he would have entered the first inn, 
but two men stood in the doorway and the obstacle was 
sufficient to deter him from the attempt. He went on 
his way; and having traversed the village came, as he 
foresaw, to the brow of a hill commanding a wide pros- 
pect. He looked to see a group of men there gazing 
northwards. The men were absent, but what they 
should have been beholding was not wanting; the far- 
off appearance of a thick vapour or smoke. He was in 
that state of mind in which turning back is the supreme 
difficulty; he walked on downhill. 

From the bottom of the hill the road traversed a 
country of perfect flatness, black-soiled, intersected by 
drains. It was indeed a piece of reclaimed fen-land, 
locally named a carr, which generations ago had been 
laboriously banked off from the river, drained and 
brought under the plough. The road, as roads are 
wont to do in that region, degenerated into a lane, the 
lane into a cart-track; and ever before his eyes he had 
that appearance of localised mist or rather smoke. He 
had not the opinion of his nose, the smell being wafted 
away by the breeze; but smoke it undoubtedly was, 
arising from the ground, for as he drew near the air 
was quite still for a time, and the pother divided itself 
into many sky-pointing columns of diverse shapes and 
sizes; which when the breeze stirred again, again bowed 
their heads. The capricious puff died out; the columns 
began to rear themselves. But no ! the breeze was only 
playing at bo-peep; once more they stooped under its 


i 82 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


buffet, lower and lower, perforce, until their severalness 
was lost in the general fume. 

All that was seen by Beiley, but passively ; it left no 
mental impression. In the same way he had seen the 
canal lock that marked the first mile, the farmstead that 
marked the second, the little row of labourers’ cottages 
that marked the third, had seen the tramp into whose 
hand he had dropped a coin of uncertain value, and 
again that other farmstead wherefrom a dog issued to 
bark at him. This last evidently was close by the reek’s 
place of origin, and a few yards further the track was 
barred by a gate. The tramp stood with the coin still 
in his hand, looking back at him. The wind being 
quiet the smoke had again slowly lifted itself out of a 
confused oneness into many heads. A dull red glow 
underlay it, which seemed to shift its place. It now 
filled his nostrils with a pungent peatiness; but its im- 
minence affected him as little with fear as with curiosity. 
If he thought about it at all he set it down for one of 
those burnings of hedge-cuttings and harrow-collected 
weeds, which are seen on every hand what time of the 
year the harvest is gathered in and the guns fetched 
out. Only he should have remembered if he had had 
his wits about him, that it was yet but mid-August. 
The crop in the black field which he had just passed 
had not been cut with scythe or reaper and peacefully 
led away, but had been levelled by fire. 

He opened the gate; he was incapable of turning 
back. The pother being temporarily less he could see 
the track alongside a drain. He followed it. He heard 
a loud holloa behind him but gave it no attention, as 
men will do who are unused to being holloaed after. 
He passed by two pillars of smoke; the others seemed 
to stand off ; he did not dream of danger ; the heat and 
the reek were but unpleasant. Again he heard a shout 
behind him. He looked back, but a fog had uprisen 
between him and the rest of the world. He was vaguely 
uneasy, but before he could either return or walk on the 
wind stirred again; he was immediately involved in a 


UNDERGROUND FIRE 


183 

dense smoke, blinding him, choking him. A third 
time he heard that loud holloa and feebly answered it. 
He was wishful to return, but even with the help of that 
loud voice could not tell the direction. He blundered 
hither and thither with a hurried uncertainty, shouting 
between gasps, trying to avoid the heat and smoke and 
appearing to get more into the thick of them. What 
the ground now gave forth was not mere vapour, but 
fire that scorched his feet. All at once it opened under 
him, let him in up to the arm-pits, hugged him in a 
fiery embrace. His voice was cut off; the cry for help 
did not leave its place of birth. The pain of burn- 
ing was less than the pain of suffocation. For a brief 
while; then he ceased to struggle, ceased almost to 
feel. 

Suddenly his uplifted hands were seized; he was 
roughly dragged half out of the pit, as roughly let slip 
back into it. The pain of it, the hope of it brought 
again his half-gone consciousness. Through the smoke 
he saw a something more substantial than smoke, a 
something which bent over him like the umbra of a 
man, seemed to take hold of him, seemed to sway with 
a great effort, seemed to draw him, draw him up. Half 
out he was sensible of a check. Was he to lapse again ? 
No, he felt the effort that drew him renewed, redoubled ; 
the manlike something above him shook with it. The 
next instant he knew himself to be rescued, confusedly, 
without detail ; and then with the pain and with the 
shock of the escape he lost consciousness. His rescuer 
ripped his jacket from him and wrapped it about his 
smouldering stockings. Then twice he holloaed, aiming 
his voice across the reek with his hands about his mouth 
for speaking-trumpet. The answer was a single dilatory 
“ Hello!’' from a distance. He shouted a third time; 
and again the same deliberate answer came after a while 
from a somewhat less distance. 

“ Come an’ lend us a hand !” cried the rescuer. 

“Who are yo?” was the answering question from 
yet a little nearer. “ I dunno yer voice.” 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


184 

‘‘What’s the bloomin’ matter o’ that? There’s a 
man ’ere’s got burnt.” 

‘‘Be yo all raight yersen ?” 

‘‘As right as anyfink; I’m enjyin’ myself proper. 
Come an’ jine the tea-party.” 

The breeze was then still; the smoke rose again 
columnar from the reek-holes. Presently through it 
another form loomed, a yokel with a sheep-hook in his 
hand. He stepped slowly forward with heavy-footed 
gingerliness, but when a score of yards off stopped 
short. 

‘‘Guy, what a poother!” he said. ‘‘Is ’e dead or 
what ?” 

‘‘ ’E’s what, ’e ain’t dead,” said the first man. ‘‘ Come 
forrards an’ let’s ’yst ’im on to ’is legs.” 

‘‘ I ain’t coomin’ no forrarder. It’s again my prin- 
ciples to come so nigh’and as this. I’ve a disloike to 
burnin’; alius hed.” 

‘‘ Come along, yer cake. ’E can’t stan’ of ’isself.” 

“ Yo’ve got singed a bit yersen, ain’t yer?” 

‘‘I’m rippin’. Come on, I tell yer; it’s as good as 
booze.” 

‘‘ If yo’re all raight theer, stop theer. I’m all raight 
’ere, an’ ’ere stops I. If yo want me yo mun coom 
to me.” 

‘‘ I can’t lift the man alone. I’m burnt myself.” 

‘‘ Didn’t I tell yer? Yo should a stood an’ hollered, 
loike me. I ain’t coomin’ no furder. If I got my 
clo’es burnt or mysen burnt, my missis ud call me. 
Besides Pve a disloike to’t.” 

The breeze blew, the smoke again drifted along the 
ground, but the rescuer, though evidently in pain, 
managed to raise Beiley to a sitting position. The 
latter, thus roused, gave a half-conscious assistance in 
the hoisting of himself to his feet. 

‘‘ ’Oiler,” shouted his befriender, ‘‘so’s we can tell 
where y’are.” 

‘‘ I’m ’ere!” said the yokel without raising his voice 
inconveniently. ‘‘ But I’m non stoppin’ ’ere. I don’t 


UNDERGROUND FIRE 185 

loike the esh an’ the smoke, an’ I’ve gotten a yowe to 
cap as has the mawks.” 

’Alf a mo’, we’re a-comin’.” 

Beiley was able under support to stagger so far as 
the obstinate countryman, who then did not object to 
go to his other side and help lead him away. It ap- 
peared that Beiley had so nearly succeeded in zigzag- 
ging across the burning close, that they were then on 
the far side of it. A few yards took them out of it by 
a gate leading into a grassy lane. 

“ ’E looks a poor cratur, ’e does,” said the yokel 
disparagingly. 

“You wouldn’t look so ’andsome as what yer does, 
Johnny,” said the other, “ if you’d bin where ’e’s bin.” 

“ I ain’t bin theer,” said the yokel, with emphasis 
too slow and tepid to be called triumphant. “ It’s a 
funny thing, ’ere I’ve lived next door to the fire for six 
month an’ never so much as tho’t o’ gettin’ burnt; an* 
this furriner comes, as has no ’casion to come as like’s 
not, an’ dang me if ’e bain’t in’t up to th’ neck-ull in no 
time.” 

“ Ev’rybody ain’t got your gifts, Johnny.” 

“What d’yer mean by my gifts?” 

“Yer boots, Johnny.” 

“ My name ain’t Johnny,” said the rustic stiffly, 
apparently in circumlocutory resentment of the reference 
to his boots. 

“ What is it then ? Christipher ? Gustus ’Enery ?” 

The rustic hesitated, as though in slow doubt whether 
his name were worth more as a secret or a boast; then 
said as though in mere sluggish yielding to the diffic- 
ulty of the doubt : 

“ It’s Tom.” 

“Tom? Ah! Once knowed a chap o’ that name, 
the biggest thief ever I set eyes on ; it makes me one o’ 
the fam’ly to yer, Tom.” 

“ There ain’t non of our fam’ly tramps.” 

“ No, I reckon your fam’ly name ’s Stick-ith’-mud.” 

Tramp the latter speaker evidently was, from the 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


1 86 

battered motorist’s cap, somewhat too small for him, 
that crowned his close-cropped hair, to the down-worn 
heels of his slip-shod shoes. His tall thin narrow- 
chested but wiry person was clad in a black frock-coat 
much too loose, frayed and grease-spotted, a grey waist- 
coat almost new, and an old pair of checked trousers out 
at the knees, one leg of which was braced so much 
higher than the other that it showed a strip of white 
skin, fresh probably from the St. Ogg’s workhouse 
bath, between ragged woollen and dusty leather. Being 
such he was taking an unusually high tone with the 
yokel, who to judge by his better-tended person was 
somewhat above a labourer in degree. Apparently the 
common difference between them had been levelled by 
uncommon circumstances. But Beiley was alive to 
nothing but the pain of his injuries and of the motion, 
as his supporters laboriously led him down the lane 
to a house set back from it, a cottage with outbuildings 
on a small scale at the rear. As they turned in at its 
gate the countryman said in a colourless tone, neither 
forbidding nor encouraging : 

“ I don’t promise as she’ll let yer in.” 

The woman was at the door before the knock ; a short 
thick-set woman who filled the doorway. 

” What’s agate now?” she said sharply. 

The tramp answered ; the rustic left supporting 
Beiley’s other elbow and stood back spectator-wise be- 
hind him ; the dog, a grey-coated sheep-dog, remained 
by the gate, distantly curious. 

“This chap’s got ’isself burnt on the Carr, ma’am; 
bad.” 

The woman looked his lordship over with little eyes 
deep-set under a bit of flinty forehead. Coatless, hat- 
less, with singed stockings, his shirt, skin and hair 
fouled with ash and smoke, he would not have looked 
prepossessing to the most favourable scrutiny. 

“ ’E don’t come in ’ere,” she said shortly and sharply; 
then aimed a fierce glance over Beiley’s shoulder to the 
rear, “ What business was’t o’ yourn, that yo need 


UNDERGROUND FIRE 


187 

put yer interfairin’ finger in’t?’’ Her eyes returned 
to the tramp. ‘‘ Tek hm to t'ospital. What’s t’ospital 
for?” 

” Who’s to take ’im, ma’am? It’s ten miles good, 
an’ I’m burnt myself.” 

What’s that to me? I didn’t burn yer nor yit get 
yer burnt.” 

” I should like to sit down,” said Lord Beiley; and 
immediately falling away from the tramp’s insufficient 
support sank to the ground in a faint. 

“Yer see,” said the tramp. “Come, ma’am, yer 
can’t give a pore chap a bit o’ kindness, if it’s only a 
crust an’ a corner, but what it’s returned yer.” 

“ Who’ll return it ?” 

“The county council,” was the prompt and unex- 
pected reply. “Yer exes if e’ lives an’ a suit o’ mourn- 
ing if ’e dies. That’s the law. But if ’e dies an’ yer 
don’t do what yer can, y’ull ’ave to bury ’im yerself. 
That’s the lawr of the land.” 

The woman stood, but her ill-balanced ignorance was 
shaken even by the impact of an unbelievable assertion. 
Presently she opened her pinched mouth just so much 
as was necessary and addressed her husband. 

“ ’E don’t come in ’ere. Yo may tek ’im to the 
fotherum, if yer like. That’s your business; I’ll hae 
noat to do wee’t.” 

The tramp showed his right hand all blistered and 
bleeding. 

“It’s my ’alf-’oliday,” he said. “Could I arst yer, 
ma’am, to ’elp your good gentleman to carry the pore 
bloke in ?” 

“ I wain’t touch ’im wi’ my little finger,” she said. 

“ It ud look bad at the inquess, ma’am, the hevidence 
what I should be compelled for to give. I ’ope they 
wouldn’t make yer pay ruination damages to the widder 
an’ them pore orphans, if it was brought in ’e died in 
default of your neglect. I ’ope so, but the feelin’s o’ 
juries alius goes wiv dead folk an’ again live uns.”. 

Of course the woman did not believe, but she felt 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


1 88 

the inward push which compelled her to come off the 
step, and lend her stout arms to the labour of carrying 
the fainting man down the yard to the fodder-room. 
They laid him on a heap of hay. 

“ Now, ma’am,” said the tramp, “ if I was you I’d 
send ’im to Lossington for the doctor, sharp; not for 
fear of a pore chap’s deaf, cert’nly not, but in conse- 
quence o’ the consequences to yer own precious self.” 

“ Gi’ me yer advice when yo’re axed for’t,” said the 
woman ; “ which’ll be long first.” However she turned 
to her husband. ” Now then, hurry up, an’ fetch Dr. 
Beardsley. Yo might a bin hafe way theer by this.” 

The man took a heavy step or two and stopped. 

“ Of coorse I moan’t tek the boss,” he said. 

“Moan’tyer? Why not? Of coorse yer mun. The 
sooner them riff-raff’s off our hands the better. Y’ud 
know that if yer knowed oat.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 

The fodder-room was a small cobble-paved square 
with a tiny window on the same side as the door. Under 
and about the window were a pile of cotton-cakes, bags 
of corn and meal and a corn-crusher, on the opposite 
side heaps of hay and straw separated by a chaff-cutter ; 
between hay and window a ladder communicated with 
the loft by a trap-door in the boarded ceiling. The 
walls were hung with cobwebs, with a rusty scythe, 
with a lot of hay-forks on a rack, with a bunch of calf- 
muzzles a generation old and a set of cart harness. 

Beiley lay on the hay in the corner farthest from the 
door, a couple of sacks under him and an old horse-rug 
over him. The doctor from Lossington, a young pract- 
itioner with eyes quietly alert under their spectacles, 
was dressing the tramp’s hand and at the same time 
trying to extract from him a coherent account of the 
accident; which the latter out of mere brain-laziness 
was avoiding. The housewife’s husband. Partly by 
name, farm-bailiff and tenant at will of the house and 
appurtenances, stood in the doorway and obscured the 
light with his considerable bulk. 

Well,” the doctor was saying, ‘‘ you got in, though I 
can’t quite understand how; but how did you get out?” 

” That chap pulled us out,” answered the tramp with 
a half-turn of his face towards the bailiff. 

” Both of you ?” 

” Why not, sir?” 

” What do you say. Partly ? Come, don’t be ashamed 
of being a hero.” 

189 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


190 

Eve gotten that yowe to dress/’ said Partly. 

He turned from the door and went down the yard 
at a pace much brisker than his ordinary. Why the 
tramp should thus have diverted from himself the flow 
of admiration? Certainly out of no deep scheming; 
he was incapable of any but the readiest, easiest, most 
short-viewed ; probably it was from a lazy abhorrence 
of fuss. Beiley said nothing, being fully occupied with 
his own sensations. Said the doctor as he gave the 
final twist to the bandage and pinned it down : 

“You know, you’ll have to go to the workhouse at 
St. Ogg’s, both of you.” 

The tramp’s head took the deprecatory droop. 

“ Couldn’t walk, sir, my ’and’s that awful bad.” 

“ You’ll be driven.” 

“ Couldn’t Stan’ it, sir; drivin’ turns me sick. That’s 
why I guv up keepin’ my carriage.” 

The dressing had eased Beiley’s pain, but he felt very 
weak and faint. 

“ Let me lie and die where I am,” he said. 

“You’re not going to die,” said the doctor; “and 
it’s out of the question your lying here. You won’t 
be allowed either medical attendance or relief unless you 
go into the house.” 

Hitherto Lord Beiley’s telescopic opinion of the work- 
house had been, that the labourer was lucky to have 
it as a mediator between him and starvation after he 
had done doing work and receiving wage; but that 
nearer view of it was so repulsively stimulating that it 
put strength into both voice and memory. 

“ I can pay for all I shall need,” he said. 

The doctor thereupon gave the face part of the atten- 
tion which had hitherto been engrossed by the leg. 

“In that case,” he said, “ perhaps you had better 
make arrangements with Mrs. Partly to occupy a room 
in her house, until you feel well enough to be moved. 
You must have a nurse for a week at any rate. Have 
you any friends you wish to communicate with?” 
“No.” 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 191 

“You donH reside in the neighbourhood ?“ 

“No.’’ 

“Simply passing through?’’ 

“Yes.’’ 

“ On business or pleasure?’’ 

“ On pleasure. But I should be obliged if you would 
kindly confine your questions to what is necessary for 
my cure.’’ 

The doctor recognized the peremptory under the court- 
eous; he turned to the tramp. 

“ I needn’t ask what you are.’’ 

“Put me down a traveller too, doctor,’’ said the 
tramp; “pleasure and business combined.’’ 

“ But gentlemen of your profession don’t often come 
this way. What brought you here?’’ 

“ Luck and a donkey-cart.’’ 

“ I wish him,’’ said Beiley, “ to have exactly the same 
treatment and accommodation as myself. I will be 
responsible.’’ 

The doctor gave directions for the treatment of their 
injuries, promised to call again next day and left. 

“ What’s your name?’’ said Beiley to the tramp. 

“ What do yer want it for?’’ 

“ For a hook to hang something on.’’ 

“Jack.’’ 

“ Jack what ?” 

“ Jack nuffink. Us gentlemen trav’llers likes to travel 
as light as we can.’’ 

“ My name’s Jack, and I’m travelling light too. 
Shake hands. Jack.’’ 

“What for?” 

“As a sign.” 

“ Not goin’ off yer chump wiv the pain, are yer?” 

“ No, the pain’s much easier. How’s your hand?” 

“ Don’t ’urt ’ardly a scrap; only I can’t forgit it.” 

“Neither can I my leg,” said Beiley, and put forth 
his hand. 

The tramp put forth his to meet it, apparently with 
much reluctance. 


192 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ ’Owever it don’t bind neiver on us to nuffink; it’s 
my left,” he said. 

“ It’s my right,” said the peer. “ Now give me my 
jacket. Jack. There’s something I want in one of the 
pockets.” 

“ Anyfink partic’lar?” 

“Yes.” 

“ It’s a mistake to put anyfink you’re chice on in a 
pocket.” 

“ Where should you put it?” 

“ In my belly. Pockets wears out, tears out, an’ — 
flares out. Yer pocket an’ yer jacket’s both gone to 
kingdom-come, ’long wiv most o’ yer stockin’s an’ ’alf 
the bloomin’ bark off yer shins.” 

Beiley put a hand in either knickerbocker pocket and 
drew them out again, one with a shilling in it and 
the other with twopence ha’penny and a bunch of 
keys. He did not produce the half-crown in one of his 
waistcoat pockets, Lady Sally’s gift, which apparently 
he did not regard as spending-money, though he could 
hardly promise himself pleasure from it as a keep- 
sake. 

“ That’s the extent of my funds,” he said. 

“ What more d’yer want ?” said the tramp. “ There’s 
the makin’s there of a fust-rate supper. To-morrer 
night’s supper I’m ’sponsible for. That’s yer own 
swagger word.” The sombreness of Lord Beiley’s ex- 
pression was not lightened by the compliment to his 
phraseology. “ Now I’m a-goin’ down among the 
mugs to see what pickin’s there is. Any borders for 
the town?” 

“ You might bring me some soap,” said Beiley, and 
dropped his one and twopence ha’penny into the tramp’s 
hand. 

“A rummy chice that,” said the tramp. “Soap 
don’t look unlike cheese but it ’ain’t a true ’ealthy 
eatin’ smell. I never knowed but one chap as could 
make a meal on it, and that’s for why they called ’im 
Soap-biler.” 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 


193 

Tust in the doorway he was struck with an idea, and 
turned. 

‘‘ Yer didn’t p’raps want it for washin’ yerself ?” 

‘‘That’s just it.” 

The tramp looked at Lord Beiley with a mixture of 
amusement and wonder. 

‘‘ What a howlin’ toff you must be !” he said. 

Then while the peer lay and divided his attention be- 
tween his damaged leg and the strange cast of fortune 
which had thrown him thus upon his back, the tramp 
walked with a slow shuffle through the yard into the 
lane. The air was full of smoke wafted from the fiery 
field. About which there is no mystery. During the 
last autumnal burning of rubbish the peaty subsoil 
which underlies most of that tract, token of its marshy 
origin, had become fired, not the first accident of the 
kind in that country. The fire smouldered underground 
for many weeks neglected or unsuspected, and when 
at last it broke forth into more active ignition, it was 
so deeply and widely established that it was found im- 
possible to subdue it. The drains on either side of the 
large enclosure prevented it from spreading into the 
adjacent land, but for what was already afire there was 
nothing but to let it burn itself out. 

As the tramp passed. Partly and the grey-coated sheep- 
dog were holding up a flock of sheep in a corner of the 
adjacent close. The bailiff looked over the hedge, and 
on his face there was the settled cloud of a grievance. 

“ Come now,” said he, “ why did yer say that about 
me?” 

‘‘What?” 

‘‘ As I drawed yer out o’t’ fire. Yer know I’d noat to 
do wee’t. Folks ’ll think I’m wantin’ or summat. 
They’ll ayther say as I’m gooin’ to the asylum or else 
I can’t pay my way. Folk hereabouts don’t do them 
harum-scarum things unless they’re in downraight 
desp’rate sarcumstances.” 

‘‘ I done it to get out on’t. You’ve got a dawg, 
hain’t yer ?” 

13 


194 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ Yes/^ 

“ I hain’t. Shovel it on to him ; say as he done it. *E 
can’t conterdick, ’e can only bite; as ’ll only make ’em 
think the wuss on ’im. Grand fing is a dawg. If I’d 
got one I might fink o’ nussin’ up a bit o’ kerickter o’ 
my own.” 

” I’d ought to a denied it fust-off, but yer spoke 
wi’ such a damned braazen face that I had to coom 
away just to convince mysen as I warn’t guilty 
on’t.” 

The tramp pursuing his leisurely way was soon over- 
taken by a cart and begged a lift. 

“What’s begotten yer hand?” said the carter. 

“ Burnt it on the Carr yonder.” 

“ What were yer doin’ theer?” 

“ Went for a warm : I’d slep’ hout.” 

“ Yo’re the chap as Mester Partly saved out o’t’ 
fire?” 

“ I b’lieve yer.” 

“It had ought to ha’ bin his missis; she’s more 
savin’ nor him even.” 

“What sort’s your squire ’ere? Any good to the 
pore ?” 

“’E’s nat a bad un, if yer ’appen to want a job of hard 
work.” 

“ It’s just what I was prayin’ for yus’dy; but to-day 
work’s hoff.” 

“That’s unfort’nate.” 

Half an hour later the tramp walked into the village 
of Lossington. He appeared quite a different man from 
him who had so cheerily left the fodder-room. His head 
drooped, his shoulders were up and forwards, his legs 
tottered, his poor old boots dragged the ground ; but all 
that was mere setting to the sling-hung arm that lay 
so piteously across his hollow breast. Thus, losing all 
fear of the magistracy and the vagrancy laws, he went 
wdth a starveling boldness through the squire’s wide 
gates, past the kennel of the squire’s dog, knocked at 
the squire’s back door and asked for alms^ in the name 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 195 

of “ me an’ my pore pal what has had a haccident on the 
Carr.” 

The rumour of their misfortune had already gone 
through the house; the squire himself came out to him, 
big and blunt. 

“ Now, my man, what do you want?” 

The further narrowing of the shoulders, the heightened 
prominence of the sling were the answer; the words 
mere ornament to the action. 

” A trifle for to buy a crust o’ bread for my pore pal, 
yer wushup, or for to bury ’im if — if ” 

” You’ll have to go to the workhouse.” 

“ My pore pal’s that bad, yer wushup, ’e can’t abear 
to be moved. And I can’t abear to leave ’im, yer 
wushup.” 

“ Case of Damon and Pythias, eh?” 

“The doctor’s very words, yer wushup; but it’s the 
burns what’s the worst; ’is legs is gashly.” 

“ He’s lying at Skelter Farm?” 

“Yes, yer wushup. The good lady an’ gentleman 
has allowed us the corner of a hout-’ouse till the pore 
chap eiver gets better or gets wuss.” 

“ It was Partly who pulled you out?” 

“So ’e says, yer wushup; I’d quite laust my con- 
science.” 

“ Which are you the most, bone-lazy or burnt?” 

The tramp took his bandaged hand out of the sling. 

“I don’t want to see it; put it back. Here’s five 
shillings for you. Don’t let the police catch you break- 
ing the law; for if they bring you before me I shall 
certainly have you locked up.” 

Ten minutes later the tramp had had a confidential 
talk with the policeman, had given him an adorned 
narration of his interview with the squire, had shown 
him the squire’s crown, and under his very eye had 
entered Shimeld the grocer’s shop and begged a screw 
of tea and a lump of soap “ for the pore chap, if yer 
please, ma’am, what’s got his deaf-blow on the Carr; 
not mentionin’ myself as ’avin’ only one ’and in hawdul 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


196 

hagony.” Nay, the policeman walked by his side and 
continued the conversation as far as Batchelor’s, where 
he begged the loan of a couple of old cups. 

‘‘ Not for myself, lady; I’m nuffink but a bit of scum ; 
so long’s I gits summat to drink it don’t matter wevver 
I drinks it out o’ me ’at or me ’and; but the tother pore 
chap’s seed better days, an’ kep’ his tripe shop in the 
Borough nex’ door but one to a plate-glass winder.” 

So Jack the tramp and Jack the lord were already 
public characters. That the one had been seen begging 
for the other within arm’s reach of the law was suffic- 
ient proof that they were upon no ordinary footing. It 
passed from mouth to mouth that they had a use for 
soap. Few of the doors that the tramp visited refused 
a contribution either in kind or money, and he returned 
to the fodder-room with a rich spoil in a borrow'ed basket. 
Which he had not had the labour of carrying; for a 
market-gardener who passed him on the road b^ade him 
get up behind on his dray, and went nearly half a mile 
out of his way to accommodate him. 

Jack’s beggings made a brave show on the rough deal 
box which he had borrowed from Partly for a table; 
the loaf of bread, the pat of butter, the pound of sugar, 
the couple of eggs, the slices of ham, the half-bar of 
soap, the bottle of beer, the box of pills, from somebody 
who believed that we can never be so ill as to be beyond 
the possibility of worsening, a decent black cloth jacket 
of the vicar’s and a pair of old carpet slippers from Mrs. 
Biddicomb. Sam Biddicomb had lounged away out of 
life and left nothing behind but a consolable widow 
and a pair of easy-fitting down-at-heel slippers, big 
enough each for two ordinary feet of mortal man. 

” There’s not a many,” said the tramp, “as ud make 
one an’ tuppence ha’penny go so far. Is there now?” 

“Things must be cheap here,” said Beiley, passing 
them over with the most cursory of glances. 

When the tramp tried coat and slippers on him he just 
asked : 

“ Where did you get them from?” 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 


197 


‘‘Bought ’em; a hend-o’-the-season bargin.” 

Beiley did not show the disgust which might have 
been expected; he took but small interest just then in 
anything but his left leg, which tortured him. He said 
however to the tramp next day, “You must get what 
you want on credit; I will see that the bills are met.” 
His “Tell me if you can’t’’ was a mere afterthought 
to relieve him of further responsibility. Thereafter he 
simply lay on his back and suffered. He was in such 
a state that continuous thought, continuous anything 
but suffering was impossible to him ; it would appear 
that the proper use even of his ears and eyes was taken 
from him. 

Next day a stable boy brought a note from the squire 
to his bailiff Partly. 

“ Bravo, Partly I Let the poor vagabonds have milk 
and anything else in reason. It won’t do for me to 
appear in it, but I’ll make it right with you.” 

Whereupon Mrs. Partly, who had just been threaten- 
ing the intruders with forcible ejectment, produced from 
her store in the eagerness of a greed that was tempered 
by a grudge a pair of threadbare blankets, an old horse- 
rug and a rough towel. 

The doctor came again and wanted to know why they 
had not moved into better lodgings. 

“ We fink we should be more hinderpendenter-like 
wiv a house to ourselves,” said the tramp. 

“ But I understood you would be able to pay for 
proper attendance,” said the doctor. 

“I hope,” said Beiley, “you will accept my assur- 
ance that it is so.” 

The doctor, considering his patient’s present dis- 
comfort and his companionship with a vagabond whose 
house-to-house cadging was notorious, smelt the rank- 
ness of a high-flavoured mystery; but being a busy 
man with many patients of known name and import- 
ance he let it pass. He was glad he had not committed 
himself to the engagement of a nurse. 

The outhouse was fairly dry ; the weather was summer- 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


198 

like; door and window looked towards the afternoon 
sun. The injury to the tramp’s right hand had been 
aggravated by his after exertions, but he bore it with 
an insensibility or contempt for pain which sometimes 
moved the lord to an ashamed admiration. 

Shouldn’t a minded if it had bin boaf ’ands,” he 
said, “so long’s my mouf kep’ in workin’ order.” 

For Beiley’s moods of impatience or melancholy he 
had the same amused contemptuous forbearance. 

“What’s hup wiv yer?” he said. “If yer fancy’s 
again the old geyser’s mutton brof, the doctor’s not' ’ere 
to see as yer don’t nibble a bit o’ this ’ere tasty ’am. 
Will yer have a pull at this bottle o’ beer ? Or a leetle 
sumfink stronger? What do yer want then ? Give yer 
chice a name.” 

What name should he give to the complexity of his 
feelings? If the animal pain or the languor of exhaus- 
tion were for the moment more to the front, the shame 
and the remorse were the deeper seated. 

“ I want to get up and walk about,” he said. 

“An’ if yer did? Y’ud only be walkin’ away from 
yer supper. I can see the bloomin’ use of a cove’s 
trotters when it’s walkin’ to a meal, but away from one, 
oh crikey!” 

But the tramp, notwithstanding his avowed dislike to 
any kind of exertion but the voluntary working of the 
jaws and the more or less automatic action of the gullet, 
performed what few chores were necessary in the fodder- 
room after a left-handed sluttish fashion. Their food 
w^as mostly given ready cooked, but he had borrowed 
an old oil-stove, begged a rusty kettle, found a leaky 
frying-pan in a heap of rubbish. With these utensils 
he was able to make a pot of tea and fry a rasher of 
bacon. He shook up Lord Beiley’s bed of hay; he 
dressed his comrade’s burns with little skill but some 
regularity, while quite neglecting his own. However 
at the doctor’s next visit his tongue would have the ready 
lie for the doctor’s question, and as his hand healed 
with wonderful rapidity the lie passed. 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 


199 


For the rest of the day he showed something like a 
genius for putting the smallest amount of exertion be- 
yond the necessary one of mere lung-work into the 
largest wrappage of time. Two or three times a week 
there was the two-mile shuffle to the village, generally 
helped by a lift in cart or wagon ; there was the cadg- 
ing lounge from house to house, the talk, hasteless, 
desultory, unabridged, with anybody who cared to ques- 
tion or to listen, the restings at every invitation of sunny 
bank, convenient wall, fence or bench; and finally the 
visit to the inn and the slow consumption of a can or 
two ‘‘ by the doctor’s borders, for to keep up my little 
bit o’ strenf.” 

But he was at his best in the evening. The day’s 
toil, such as it was, had passed; there was none to 
engage his present but the not unpleasing play of clasp- 
knife upon bread and cheese or beef; none to disturb 
the immediate future but an inconsiderable journey 
from the box whereon he sat against the wall to his 
straw couch in the nearest corner. There was a bottle 
of beer within easiest reach; he ate, drank, talked to 
a listener and listened to a talker in the same leisurely 
methodless unconcerned manner, like a perfectly lazy 
and unmoraled man. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE FODDER-ROOM 

Even in that thinly peopled district the accident to 
Lord Beiley and the tramp made considerable ado. 
The weekly newspapers of the neighbourhood, the Ford- 
ham Guardian, the Sopworth Inquirer, even the Newark 
Review had contained effusive paragraphs headed “ A 
Local Deed of Heroism, ’’ “A Plucky Rescue*’ or 
“ Thrilling Escape from the Jaws of Death.” Partly, 
whether from a sluggish vanity or pure sluggishness, 
had not followed the tramp’s advice and laid the blame 
upon his dog. Raised to the position of parochial hero, 
he received the meed of an admiration which was only 
more than dubious when he was absent. Anyhow he 
was talked about; and may therefore be taken to have 
hit the very bull’s-eye of ambition. 

From farmstead and cottage the women came under 
pretext of something to beg, borrow or pay back, or 
with the open acknowledgment of a waste five minutes, 
and stood by the hour on the hither or thither side of 
Mrs. Partly’s door-step, according to their degrees of 
intimacy. The men, their day’s work ended, left their 
private second-early potatoes unlifted, their kidney- 
beans unpulled, with the sanguine prophecy that another 
day or two’s sun would improve them. By ones and 
twos and threes they lounged awkwardly about in 
Partly’s yard, kicked the cobble-stones with their nailed 
boots, cherished their horny hands deep in their sack- 
like pockets, smoked and chewed, sparingly ejected 
spittle and dropped comment. Or they looked in at 
the fodder-room and exchanged experience-weighted 


200 


THE FODDER.ROOM 


201 


opinions of pig and weather for the tramp’s unlaboured 
lies. Him they called Jack Sit-down, while Lord Beiley 
went by the nick-name of Jack Lig-down, that is to say 
Lie-down. 

Their talk was especially free one evening about a 
week after the accident. The sun’s horizontal rays 
boldly entered the fodder-room both by door and window, 
casting on the wall exaggerated images of the tramp 
seated on his box and of his visitors standing about the 
doorway. Beiley lay in his nook between ladder and 
wall just out of shot of the blaze that came in by the 
window ; but it made the brass flash on the cart-pad 
that hung upon a hook from the ceiling; it lighted up 
every stain, every cobweb on the wall above him, in 
loud contrast to the gloom of the side next the entrance. 
Partly, being vice-proprietor, stood within the door, but 
had the least to say of any; Sam Clagg the old hedger 
and Sid Jee the young under-gamekeeper stood by either 
jamb with the large person of Arthur- Munn, labourer, 
between them. Over Munn’s shoulder Joe Carter of the 
Turncroft Farm peered in, tall and thin; Jesse Bidden, 
rat-catcher, cattle-doctor, odd-man in general, was be- 
hind them all, a small spare dark-eyed eager man with 
close-curled hair and beard and wearing a sleeved waist- 
coat and cloth cap. Being small and hindermost he was 
cut off from sight of the room but spoke most of all. 
It was he who began it in a thin and squeaky voice, 
while the tramp lingered over his supper of cold boiled 
bacon and potatoes, and Tartar the sheep-dog, grey, 
rough-coated and bob-tailed, sat in the midst with the 
reserved inattention of a critic. 

“ Tell ’em what yer to’d me, Arthur,” said Jesse. 

” I dunno — What did I tell yer?” 

“About — yo know — what Frank at the parson’s 
said.” 

“ What were that?” asked Sid. 

Munn did not speak, so eager Jesse answered for him. 

“ ’E said as t ’parson hed writ oop to London to ax the 
Roil Human Society for a medal for Mester Partly.” 


202 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ Yo’ve begun at the wrong end od beginnin’, Jesse,’' 
said the slow Munn. 

What’s the medal for?” said Sid. 

‘‘What’s t’ Human Society?” said Carter. 

“ But who to’d Frank ?” said Clagg. 

” Let the man speak,” said Carter; ” ’e can’t answer 
for t’ questions.” 

“ Them as telled ’im,” said Munn, sweeping the ques- 
tions aside, slow but sure, ” them as telled ’im telled ’im 
not to tell nubbudy.” 

“That ud be their Hannah,” said Jesse; “she’s a 
wunnerful woman for a secret.” 

“ Frank ud tek that,” said Sam Clagg, “ to mean as 
’e could tell ivrybody but ’is own wife.” 

“ But what’s the medal for?” said Sid. 

“ Them as telled ’im should know,” said Munn, “ for 
they took the letter to t’ post an’ stuck the stamp on 
theirsens.” 

“ But yer hain’t to’d uz what the oad medal’s for,” 
said Sid. 

“ For to encoorage ’im,” squeaked Jesse, “ to save 
other folkses’ loives.” 

“ I don’t see no encooragement i’ that,” said Carter, 
“ ayther for gettin’ burnt or drovvmded, which is the next 
most awk’ardest death of all; I’d sooner hae a pipe o’ 
bacca.” 

“Ah, but it een’t loike them Jubilee medals,” said 
Jesse; “unless I’m greatly mista’en it’s more liker t’ 
army medals as carries a pension wee’m.” 

“ How d’yer mek that out?” said Carter. 

“ Well, it wouldn’t be so much tho’t on if it warn’t 
backed up wi’ summat solid.” 

“ Was that all ’e to’d yer, Arthur?” asked Sid. 

“ No, ’e said as ’e hed it from a sure autherity.” 

“ That’s Hannah for sartain,” squeaked Jesse; “ she’s 
a sure talker.” 

“ But ’e said t’ parson’s letters warn’t no business o’ 
theirn as telled ’im, nor hisn ” 

“As telled yo,” said Clagg. 


THE FODDER-ROOM 


203 


“Nor yit o’ mine,” said Munn. 

“As were listenin’,” said Clagg. “ But what did e’ 
saay after all that pedigree?” 

“ ’E said as we warn’t to tell the hull parish, we war 
to use joodgment.” 

“ Wer^ own or hisn?” asked Sam Clagg. 

“ Nay, ’e didn’t saay.” 

“ Then ’e meant wer own. For if he’d hed any 
’twouldn’t a bin loike Frank not to a made uz kindly 
welcome to ’t.” 

The sun which had been blazing so boastfully up to 
the last, as though threatening refusal of his daily 
eclipse, seemed all at once to give way to compulsion 
and went behind the reek, which however it not only 
permeated with a glow variable from blood-crimson to 
the dunnest of purples, but at every opportunity pierced 
through and through with fiery flickering thrusts. 
Where they hit the wall or the men’s hands and faces, 
these appeared to waver with the comings and goings 
of the weird inconstant light. 

“ It moot be welly-nigh seven o’clock toime,” said 
Jesse. 

But that led to no further conversation, so he squeaked 
again through the narrow gap between Munn’s fat and 
Carter’s lean, “ What does it feel like. Jack Lig-down, 
to be saved from burnin’ to dead?” 

“ It feels as if it was hardly w^orth the trouble,” said 
Lord Beiley wearily. 

“ ’E appears,” said Clagg, “to set as high a price 
on trouble as that chap as clammed hissen to dead, 
becos bread were that cheap it didn’t pay for t’ labour 
o’ chewin’ on ’t.” 

“ Hae yer iver tho’t,” said Jesse, “to tell Mester 
Partly as yo’re grateful to him for ’t?” 

“ No,” said Lord Beiley. 

“No? Coom, that don’t seem ’ardly civil accordin’ 
to my way o’ thinkin’. What does the man say? Keep 
yer feet still, Sid Jee.” 


1 Our. 


204 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘He don’t say noat,” answered Sid; “that’s his 
opinion o’ your way o’ thinkin’.” 

Tartar had had enough of it; he rose and uncere- 
moniously pushed his way out-of-doors between Munn’s 
thick calves. 

“ What did yer do’t for, Tom ?” said Joe Carter after 
a sufficient pause. 

“ I dunno,” answered Partly; “ I’ve never tho’t that 
much about it.’’ 

“ Try an’ think now, Mester Partly,” said Jesse. 

There was an interval of expectation ; possibly Partly 
was trying, though it made no mark on his face. At 
any rate he said after a while : 

“ I’m a kind man.” 

“ I niver heerd nubbudy gie yer that kericter afore,” 
said Clagg; “not even yer own sen.” 

“A man might be kind,” said Carter, “an’ keep it 
to hissen.” 

“ Were yer droonk?” said Sid. 

“ I hedn’t hed aboon one haf e-pint.” 

“ Then yer warn’t even merry?” 

“ A man don’t get merry on noat,” said Partly almost 
impatiently. 

“ M’appen yer was mad, think yer?” said Clagg. 

“ Nay, nay, that don’t run in our fam’ly. We’d 
a huncle as were a bit hodd, but ’e coom in by mar- 
riage.” 

“Then I don’t see no excuse for yer. To risk the 
loife of a parish councillor for the saake o’ two or three 
cadgin’ wastrels ! This’ll loase yer my vote, Mester 
Partly, at the next election.” 

“They’re ’is feller-men any road,” squeaked Jesse, 
who was tainted with radicalism. 

“Feller-men be danged ! Would yer sleep wee ’m, 
Mester Partly ?” 

Partly hesitated uneasily, as though bed and bed- 
fellow were visibly offered to his yes or no; then drawn 
by the joint gaze of the whole company he answered : 

“ No, I wouldn’t.” 


THE FODDER-ROOM 


205 

‘‘Then I don’t see no consistenty in bein’ so thick 
wee ’m as to save their loives.” 

Joe Carter seemed uneasy under expressions so un- 
usual. He said : 

“ There was a man at Brownley — I’ve seed ’im a 
many times — as saved a man out’n the cut. I niver 
heerd noat said again him. He was well anough liked; 
both afore an’ after. Andrews; that were ’is naame, 
John Andrews.” 

‘‘ What were the t’other man’s naame?” said Jesse. 

‘‘ I niver heerd tell.” 

“No,” said Sam, “an’ if yo hed heerd tell yo 
wouldn’t be no surer on’t, no more nor yo hae gotten 
a eel becos yo hae’t by the tail. Yo may depend yer 
life ’e wor one o’ them here-today-theer-tomorrer chaps, 
with a naame no more a fixtur nor ’is cooat. Respect- 
able sorts o’ men keeps watter for weshin’ an’ fire for 
warmin’, mostly; any road they’d hae better manners 
nor to happen on a haccident among straangers.” 

All the time Jesse had been shifting and fidgeting, 
peeping and prying, while trying to get a glimpse in 
between the men who filled the door-stead. Perhaps his 
personal disappointment made him the readier to take 
a high moral ground. 

“What call hae yo, Sam Clagg,” he said, “to slur 
the men? They’ve niver done no harm by yo; they’re 
civil spoken to yo. Why don’t yer say summat. Jack 
Sit-down? Yo’ve a tongue i’ yer ’ead. Why don’t 
yer oop an’ black-guard ’im back?” 

The sun, now at its lowest, shone under the smoke, 
again displaying its complete round, and flooded the 
fodder-room with its red triumph; and yet its very 
brilliancy made the shadows seem the larger and darker. 
Jack the tramp put the last double mouthful of bread 
and bacon into his mouth, put down his empty plate 
on the floor, wiped his fingers on his coat, sucked his 
unctuous teeth and then said quite at his ease : 

“ Beg pardon, gents, if I’ve kep yer waitin’ on me. 
I know it ain’t manners, but neiver would it a bin doin’ 


2o6 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


justice to them good victuals if Pd kep them a-waitin’ 
whilst I talked. Pve often bin short o' grub, never o’ 
gab. What yer says, Mr. Clagg, I quite agrees wiv it, 
every word. Beautiful wevver for the crops, gentlemen.” 

Jesse, who was still manoeuvring for a place of van- 
tage, was now quite angry. 

“Then yo hedn’t ought to agree wee ’t,” he said. 
“ We expeck men loike yo to be a bit mealier-mouthed 
nor ordinary, but we don’t want yer to be downraight 
slawmy. Oat loike a man should hae summat loike a 
man’s sperrit. He’s nubbut a down-oad chap; damn 
at ’im a bit, man aloive ! Yo’ve the raight on ’t.” 

The tramp spat deliberately, once on his right and 
once on his left. 

“ Nay, Mr. Bidden, I couldn’t rise myself up to be 
so owdacious; I ain’t the sperrit what’s expected of 
a sheep-doctor. I don’t pertend to be nuffink. I never 
’eerd nuffink but what I didn’t quite agree wiv it.” 

“ What are yer breffetin’ ^ about so for, Jesse?” said 
Joe Carter impatiently. 

“ I can’t see in,” said Jesse. 

“Yo mun do as I do, look ower Arthur’s tother 
shou’der.” 

“ It’s not that,” said Jesse, whose eyes were but on 
a level with Munn’s elbow, “it’s the funny loight as 
dazzes me.” 

Willy-nilly the sun touched the low line of hills 
along the horizon and straightway was shorn of half its 
glory. Then while a slow man like Munn might count 
his fingers its last contentious flashes flew high; it 
vanished. 

“ I don’t see how a man can agree wi’ iverything,” 
said Munn, who was somewhat sluggish of under- 
standing. “ How can yer agree both wi’ the valley 
Mester Johnson put on ’is colt, an’ the valley Finlay 
the hoss-coper put on ’t?” 

“ Heasy,” said the tramp easily. “ Some men likes 
their meat on one plate an’ their puddin’ on another; 

^ Fidgeting. 


THE FODDER-ROOM 


207 


I’m a pore man, I eat ’em boaf togevver, bloomin’ glad 
to get ’em any’ow. Same way some men says ‘ this 
un’s a lie, that un’s a trewf,’ an’ sorts ’em; they’re 
that partic’lar. Eiver on ’em’s good enough for the 
likes o’ me. Down they goes, boaf on ’em togevver. 
Dunno but what they tastes all the better for the mixtur. 
We don’t want all bread, nor yit quite all meat; but 
jolly glad to get eiver, us pore men.” 

” Come, do yer mean as yer can mek out a lig to be 
a trewth. Jack Sit-down?” said Jesse. 

“Never tried, Mr. Bidden; it’s good enough as it 
Stan’s; for me.” 

“What toime is it by your watch, Mester Carter?” 
said Jesse. 

“ Power an’ twenty past seven,” said Carter. 

Sid Jee relieved the door-jamb of the weight of his 
broad shoulders, the others, and Munn last, sluggishly 
bestirred themselves. Out of doors the day’s vehement 
resistance had given way to a slow serene acceptance. 
One thought one saw the peeping of a star ; saw it and 
did not see it. Within the fodder-room the brass of the 
cart-pad on the wall gleamed dully with a many times 
reflected light; the tramp’s face, and perhaps his hands, 
appeared with a grey uncertain glimmer; Lord Beiley 
in the corner was parcel of the general shade. The 
visitors departed one by one, each with an unadorned 
“ Good-night, all.” The tramp shut the door and going 
to his own corner nestled down into the straw. 

After a little while “Jack!” said Beiley from his 
corner. The vagrant’s “Yus” was delayed until he 
was called again, as though sleep had already thickened 
his hearing. 

“ I ask you what that man asked the other man : 
What did you do it for?” 

“Me? Nay, ’ow should I know? Do a thing an’ 
reckon it up, that’s two men’s work.” 

“Think?” 

“ Not me; I’m no bloomin’ sweater but a blown-out 
hidle vagabone. Let them think as ’as nuffink in their 


208 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


insides. Besides for wunst in a while a chap may do 
anyfink for nuffink. If he does it twyst yer may s’pose 
’e eiver cottons to it or is druv to it.’’ 

‘‘ I should like to know.” 

“I wasn’t drunk. To prove it, I never am drunk; 
at least not to that golushous extent. Must a bin a 
sport, toff.” 

‘‘ But why did you give the credit of it to the other 
man ?” 

“ Lord, what a hocean o’ whys ! There’s nuffink I’d 
give away sooner nor what yer calls credit. Unless it 
was credit at the pub or the prog-shop. D’yer fink I 
wanted to be smuvvered with gab an’ gas an’ putty 
medals? Not me. I likes to go light. If some’dy 
guv me to-morrer’s supper, the most scrumptious of 
toke. I’d sooner chuck it into the nex’ ditch nor cart 
it about wiv me. Not but what, if there was a 
pension ” 

“ There may be,” said Beiley. 

“ There ain’t none as I see, let alone finger. All 
balm !” 

As soon as he had done speaking his breathing 
slowed; he was fast asleep. Beiley remained awake to 
find what amusement he could out of ingenious blendings 
of his recollections and expectations. The only material 
thing visible to him was the narrow oblong of pale star- 
less sky between the ridge of the house and the lintel 
of the little window. With the rest he could do no 
more than make inseparable distinction of dark from 
darkest; just so large a difference of colour as divided 
his apprehensions from his hopes. There was the 
squeak of rats within the room and overhead. Far away 
two dogs were howling, one against the other. After a 
great while one faint star appeared in that narrow field 
of sky, crossed it slantwise and disappeared. He looked 
for another, but none came. Twice in the night an 
owl shrieked as it flew past. When he turned over 
on his hay for the better ease of body or mind, the 
rats scampered to a distance and for a minute or two 


THE FODDER-ROOM 


209 


their squeaking would be silenced. Long since the 
dogs had ceased their emulation. But turn as he might 
his thoughts never for one moment removed themselves 
or were still; until at length the lessened value of that 
patch of wan sky showed that day was at hand. With 
sudden stealth it came and the walls about him were 
again of solid brick, not of shadows and imaginations; 
the rats ran to their holes; he fell asleep. 


14 


CHAPTER XXIII 


MUTTON BROTH 

It turned out to be true that the vicar of Lossington, 
never so happy as when he was getting up a subscrip- 
tion, a testimonial or anything involving much letter- 
writing and going to and fro with little to show for it, 
was busying himself to procure one of the Royal 
Humane Society’s medals for Partly. It was much dis- 
cussed in the parish, and opinion was general, at least 
among those who talked — and indeed those who do not 
talk are not supposed to have opinions — that the medal 
carried a pension with it, calculation however varying 
from a weekly something to an annual next to nothing. 
Partly exulted, perhaps to the extent of an extra pint 
of beer a week. Mrs. Partly professed to despise the 
medal, to disbelieve in the pension, not to have read 
the newspapers; but she bore the intrusion of ‘‘them 
two wasters ” with a better grace than could have been 
expected, and did not tell the tramp more than six times 
a day that she hoped he and his butty would soon be 
“ i’ fettle to flit.” The day-long “chuntering” to her 
husband, the daily complaints to butcher and baker, 
to visitor and chance passer, touching the muck and mess 
and fire-danger from their occupancy of the fodder- 
room may be taken merely as the relaxation of a busy 
life. 

Who shall say how much Lord Beiley knew of what 
was going on ? He lay on the begrudged fodder of the 
Partlys; he allowed the parson’s gift-jacket to be drawn 
over his shoulders; what little he ate was out of the 
beggar’s basket. But then he was used to seeing food 

210 


MUTTON BROTH 


211 


upon his table without hearing the chink of the money that 
paid for it and without thought of the labour of preparing 
it. The first acute disabling pain subsided into the 
languor of exhaustion; he felt so weak that his own 
hands were heavy to him. As theretofore it had been 
sufficient for him to lie and suffer, so then it was suffic- 
ient to lie and feel weak ; for his mental troubles were but 
parcel of his general debility. They afflicted him, but 
with mere motion ; even as a giddy mob of shadows 
cast by the fire vexes sick eye-sight with random com- 
binations and divisions. And as small things near 
the source of light give greater shadows than larger 
ones at a distance, so what fretted him most during that 
period was neither his prime disaster nor his more 
serious inconveniences, but the unevenness of a blanket, 
the loudness of a voice, the rope-dancing of a spider 
between himself and the window, the gnawing of a rat 
in the night. 

The first sign of a gain of strength, appetite and 
interest in his surroundings was the slight stirring of 
hunger which he felt at the smell of some mutton broth 
brought to his bedside by the tramp. 

“Where did that come from?’^ he asked. 

“ From Mrs. Walker.” 

It was not true, but the tramp, having no bias either 
way, found it easier just then to invent than remember. 

“Who is Mrs. Walker?” 

Once started, the tramp sauntered indolently down 
the meandering unhedged path of falsehood. 

“ She’s a hold sinner as ’opes to get to heaven becos 
^he can’t abide cold mutton.” 

“ Do you mean she gave you it?” 

“ I hoffered ’er the money but she wouldn’t take it. 
In ’opes of a front seat in ’eaven, yer know, reserved 
an’ numbered. Besides she hadn’t change.” 

Beiley put down the broth on the floor; he seemed to 
smell a taint in it. 

“ Aren’t yer a-goin’ to drink a drop of it, toff?” 

“ I’m not hungry.” 


212 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ Yer don’t heat enough to keep that there flea fat 
as yer grizzle so about.” 

Later in the day the clergyman came to see him, the 
tramp being also present. Either there was no great 
difference between the peer’s appearance and the pauper’s, 
or Mr. Dawson Dickson beheld them from too great a 
height to perceive it. A good-natured, well-meaning, 
gentlemanly man, he very kindly expressed his pity for 
their misfortune. But a superior person condescend- 
ing to inferiority always thinks that the nearest way 
to a joint confidence is by a one-sided questioning. 
After the accident had been talked out, he asked them 
how they came to take up with that way of life. Beiley 
answered with a wry mouth : 

” Probably just as other people take up with it; be- 
cause I thought it impossible I ever could.” 

” The long an’ short on it is, sir,” said the tramp 
from behind, ” it was the drink as done it; boaf on us.” 

“Always the same!” said the innocent gentleman. 
“The same old story! But why not try and break 
yourself of the accursed habit?” 

“Just what we are a-doin’, sir, gradual. We ain’t 
’ad nuffink stronger’n brof — ’cept doctor’s borders — ever 
since this unfort’nate misfortune ’appened us,” 

“ Well, this misfortune, as you call it, may be a 
blessing in disguise, you know.” 

“ Just what I called it, sir, the day afore yus’dy.” 

“ It will be if it leads you to an effectual repentance, 
you know.” 

“ It will that, sir, no fear.” 

Said Beiley testily, for he felt a recurrence of the 
pain, “ I don’t see anything in a burn to make a man 
repent of anything except of getting burnt.” 

“Then you refuse to repent?” said the gentleman, 
as though that were not the commonest of refusals; 
almost as common as promising to repent. 

Beiley suffered more from the pain of the comfort 
than from the pain of the pain. 

“ How can I refuse,” he exclaimed, “ any more than 


MUTTON BROTH 


213 

I can consent? If a man repents, it’s because he must 
repent.” 

” Well, well, I don’t want to probe you too near,” 
said the good-natured clergyman, who like many another 
curator of souls took his aimless progging for probing. 
” Please understand I only do it for your good. But 
repentance without fruits meet for repentance, you know, 
is of no avail. I do hope when you’re better you’ll go 
back to the tripe shop. I’m glad the coat fits you so 
well.” 

” Why did he say that?” said Beiley as soon as 
their visitor had departed. 

“ ’Ow should I know? Seed it hangin’ in the shop 
winder p’raps an’ had a heye on it for hisself, so said 
that jus’ to show as ’e worn’t jealous.” 

” It strikes me. Jack, you’re an out-and-out liar.” 

“ No, toff, only a quite moderate un. There’s no 
sense in crammin’ folk when it’s convenientest to speak 
the trewf.” 

” What was the convenience in telling the clergyman 
just now that we were both given to drink?” 

” When yer know what’s expected on yer, what’s 
the bloomin’ good o’ bovverin’ yer brains to put to- 
gevver a slap-up hout-o’-the-hordinary lie? It ud be 
just chuckin’ good material away.” 

” I don’t think that an answer to my question.” 

“Ain’t it, toff? Then so’s it shouldn’t be wasted 
p’raps yer’ll kindly harst me a question as it does 
answer.” 

“ Instead of that there’s another question I should 
like to put, if I thought there was any chance that 
it would be quite inconvenient to you to tell an un- 
truth.” 

“Yer can but try me, toff. I’d tell yer afore’and if 
I knowed myself.” 

“ What did the clergyman mean by the tripe shop?” 

“ Oh, parson’s slang for ’eaven. Not a bad name 
neiver for them as is fond o’ tripe. An’ them as isn’t 
will be up there, if they’re fit out wiv new stomachs 


214 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


under their new ’earts; as they should be if them as 
does the job is in as big a way as what they says.” 

‘‘Then you should be looking forward to transla- 
tion.” 

“What’s that? tripe?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Not a bit. There may be tripe to-morrer, but I 
never looks no forrader than supper-time. It’s sausage 
to-night. Now the drorback, or one on ’em, to that 
’eaven o’ theirn is that the suppers, by what they make 
out, comes so bloomin’ reg’lar; all planned — an’ 
cooked for anyfink I know — from eternity. I ain’t got 
two stomachs, let alone a milliond; I ain’t got the 
bloomin’ room for two suppers at once; even knowin’ 
about another seems to squeedge the one what’s down 
the cellar a’ready. No, my idear of perfick ’appiness 
is one belly an’ one supper in it; tripe if yer like, ’ot, 
pig’s fry with mashed taters, sausages an’ ditter, ’ot, 
alius ’ot; a full-upper, a fair blowed-upper, so as yer 
can feel it crowd on yer all round, like a bladder full 
o’ lard. After that good lush till you’re silly-’appy. 
Throw a pipe or two in, an’ if that isn’t true ’appiness, 
sentence me to ’eaven for a lifer.” 

“I begin to feel hungry; probably through talking 
about tripe. What have you in your larder?” 

“ I could warm up that there drop o’ mutton brof.” 

“No.” 

The refusal was decided. 

“ What d’yer say to a tiny bit o’ this nyst tapioca 
puddin’?” 

“ How did you come by it?” 

“Bought it, honour bright, at the cook-shop — Mr. 
Wilkinson’s; turn to the left just arter the church. 
There’s a chalk cow in the front winder an’ a pump 
in the backyard, which is the signs they’re in the 
dairy line. If you’d sooner ’ave it warm I could ’ot 
it up in half a mo’.” 

“ Thank you. I’ll have it as it is; unless warming it 
will drive off any lies that are sticking to it.” 


MUTTON BROTH 215 

“I don’t arsf what yer means, toff, becos I don’t 
know.” 

Which is the best, perhaps the only reason for not 
inquiring which has yet been invented. Lord Beiley’s 
hunger was for the time being stronger than his 
scrupulosity ; he ate the pudding, unvolatilized lies 
and all, down to the dish, and felt the better for it — or 
them. So much so that shortly afterwards he entered 
on a serious conversation with the tramp. 

‘‘ I want to have a business talk with you. Jack.” 

“ ’Old on a minute, toff.” 

The tramp went to his straw heap in the corner, and 
extended himself on it so that his head had no superiority 
over his heels. 

“ I alius likes to take my business layin’ down. I 
seems to see my way through it clearer if I keeps my 
’ead level. Now go it, toff; if yer reelly can’t ’elp.” 

‘Wou don’t appear to have had any difficulty so far 
in getting supplies on credit.” 

“ Difficulty, toff? Yer talk like a hinfant. The only 
difficulty’s been to persuade anybody to let me pay ’em 
on the nail. The grocer ’ere in partic’lar’s a reg’lar 
bully to the chaps as won’t let ’im chalk nuffink down. 
I b’lieve ’e’d a covered ’is ’ouse back an’ front wiv 
chalk for me, an’ then borrer’d the station ’oardin’, if 
I hadn’t spoke to the bobby.” 

“ You must insist on it. Jack.” 

‘‘ I sometimes feels wery weak yet, toff.” 

“ Do you feel strong enough to take the train to St. 
Ogg’s and dispose of these?” 

Beiley unclasped the studs from his shirt cuffs and 
threw them across to the tramp. 

‘‘ Strike me if they don’t look quite the fancy harticle ! 
An’ ’ow do yer want me to dispose on ’em ? Put ’em 
up the spout, raffle ’em off at the pub, claim the reward 
for restorin’ ’em to the bloke what lost ’em or hauction 
’em hoff in lots to suit purchasers?” 

” I leave that to your riper experience.” 

“ They looks so natty again my wrist-rag I’ve ’alf 


2i6 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


a score o’ good minds for to buy ’em myself. ’Owever 
I’ll give the bother swells a look-in, so consider me 
booked for St. Haugg’s to-morrer.” 

Next day Jack went to St. Ogg’s or elsewhere, and 
was away many hours, but Beiley waited a week before 
asking him how he had sped. The tramp then assured 
him that he still had five and sixpence ha’penny in hand 
from the pawning of the cuff-links. Beiley gave him 
his collar stud to dispose of in the same way. He had 
grave doubts of his comrade’s trustworthiness but felt 
helpless, and had moreover been brought up to doing 
business by proxy and unsatisfactorily. 

It may well be wondered why he did not at length com- 
municate with Fasson and ease himself at least of the 
remediable part of his vexations. Arguments, if such 
they may be called, were for ever crossing the back- 
ground of his pain, for and against, a ragged procession 
of inconsecutives and evasions, among which his real 
objections made no show. These were a repugnance to 
taking an unknown person into his secret, a still greater 
repugnance to displaying himself in his squalor to a 
known person. They underlay his lassitude, making 
his weakness the strongest part of him. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


RECOVERY 

As Beiley ’s health improved, his perceptions quickened, 
his sufferings increased. But what he endured in his 
own person, beneath his own skin was only a part, 
tended more and more to become the smaller part of 
his torment. He was two persons as he lay there, 
suffered the pain of two existences, sustained at once 
the burden of the wrong-doing and the injury, of the 
man and of the woman, of him who hid and of her who 
showed herself. He had not been deceived by Lady 
Sally’s outward bearing into thinking her callous to the 
insult, indifferent to the wrong. He felt within himself 
the compressed scorn and resentment proper to such 
a situation ; stood upon her pedestal, bore the rent to 
her delicacy, passed by the public jibe, put aside the 
private condolence, comprehended the self-contempt 
that must be the portion of one who has allowed the 
opportunity to so scurvy a betrayal. 

Ever and ever again there was a recurrence to his 
own loss. Not of name and position only; they could 
be appraised, could be deplored and be done with. But 
the loss of her ! How could that be reckoned, itemed, 
put away ? Her pale calm face was always before him, 
everything else mere background to it. How must she 
feel who could so completely conceal her feelings ! 
What courage she had shown in circumstances where 
public opinion expected, demanded cowardice ! Not 
even that final shock had altered by one line the natural 
nobility of her countenance, voice and demeanour; the 
shock of encountering him whom it would be flattering 

217 


2I8 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


to call the villain of her tragedy ; as it would be lowering 
her to call him the cad of her comedy. What a mate 
for the man who should be worthy of her, the man, if 
such there were, of equal fineness, honour and fortitude ! 
Therein was the sole bright spot in so sorry a complica- 
tion; that she had escaped the long misery of so un- 
worthy an alliance. Therein at least was some matter 
for rejoicing. 

Yet he gave no sign of rejoicing, any more than when 
fronting the blacker aspects of the case. Which may 
mean this or may mean that, or may mean this and 
that; but at any rate means, it is a hopeless task to 
attempt unpicking the matted twists of a man’s emotions 
and imaginations. Something may be said of his words 
and actions; they are, these the solid, those the fluid 
of his efficiency, have form and colour, measurable 
dimensions, assignable boundaries; but what he thinks, 
what feels, are the ethereal part of his activities ; bound- 
less, unfixable, unfollowable, they fill all space from 
here to the farthest and as much beyond the farthest. 
Let then only this ultimate fact be recorded ; that as his 
pains lessened his sufferings increased. 

Two or three weeks passed ; the surface of the w^ound 
had sloughed, the healing was progressing, and still Beiley 
was tied to the fodder-room. Sometimes he would rise 
and sit awhile on the cadger’s box, sometimes he would 
stand at the door and look out ; but he soon drew back, 
for he felt the windows of the house were upon him ; 
and whenever he heard a footstep on the stones outside 
he forthwith went back to his hay and turned his face 
to the wall. His head was weak, his limbs unstable, 
he felt an invalid’s lassitude, but the lassitude of con- 
valescence, for unawares his strength was returning on 
him. Of this however he was so little conscious that 
he believed his health to be upon the wane. He some- 
times took a melancholy sick pleasure in imagining him- 
self to be approaching his end; dying like a rat in a 
hole. Well, there was comfort in that. Overturn an 
inkpot and a page of villainous writing may be concealed 


RECOVERY 


219 


under one black blot; and so the whole sum of his 
errors, crimes and cowardices would be covered up by 
the pauper’s pall. 

These morbid broodings of his reached their culmina- 
tion one sleepless night in the second week of Septem- 
ber. He made his will mentally; he took his leave of 
life ; he acted his dying so really that he almost wondered 
the rats did not begin to devour his corpse. 

Many a time he died that night and came to life again. 
The night seemed as long as many lives. Many a time 
he wished for day ; and when at last he opened his eyes 
it was day; day pallid and feeble, but still day. He 
could hear the young swallows twittering upon the 
eaves. He lay and the day strengthened, strengthened 
until it was stronger than his purpose to lie out yet 
another day. Before he knew that he had any intention 
of rising he had risen. With undirected steps he went 
to the door and with unbidden hand opened it. The 
rush of the cool fresh morning breeze into the mixed 
atmosphere of the hovel, stuffy, mouldy, ratty, stablish, 
was delicious. It smote his forehead with a rebuke, 
but the rebuke of love. He stepped out of doors; he 
took full breaths of the uncontaminated air. It quenched 
the fever of his brain, it fixed his wavering sight, it 
braced his feeble knees, it nerved his weak will. He 
walked down the stones to the gate and out into the 
field. He had an expectant feeling, as though he had 
made discoveries and were on the eve of more. 

The sun was but half-an-hour’s journey above the 
plain. The moon was flying before him; so near that 
she was pale with the fear of being caught; and as he 
pursued he shot his arrows after her. He permeated 
the mists under him with a white glory that hid the 
horizon. A field of ripe barley stood between the looker 
and the luminary. The white gleam and the white corn 
were at one; each awn of those myriads of heads was 
crowned with a silvery flicker and their joint radiance 
flashed like a Lilliputian army at drawn swords. Beiley 
looked away. The western horizon contemplated with 


220 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


a grey pensiveness the glowing magnificence of the 
east. Overhead the sky was clear save for a few white 
woolly wisps of cloud ; athwart the bluest of it stretched 
a train of cawing rooks. But he soon turned again sun- 
ward. An invisible lark sang out of the upper splendour 
like an inspired chant, pure voice, from the impenetrable 
effulgence of a shrine. 

He heard the house door open, heard a man’s hob- 
nailed boots upon the stones outside, heard Partly 
whistle to the dog. He felt a momentary hesitation be- 
tween going in and going forth, forth never to return. 
It was the latter that attracted him, but habit enslaves 
even our desires ; he went back to the hovel. The tramp 
was still asleep and snoring like a pig. At one end only 
his face, at the other a boot appeared out of the up- 
heaped straw ; an unwashed, unshaven, unattractive face ; 
a dusty frowzy boot, worn down on one side and show- 
ing the uncleanly flesh through two great slits in its 
upper. He lay down and did not go out again that 
day. That he was not however musing entirely at 
random was proved by his words to the doctor, who 
called about noon after an interval of two or three days. 

“ I should like to know", doctor, how much I owe you 
for your attendance.” 

The doctor looked away from the leg and at his 
patient’s face. 

” Suppose I say a guinea?” 

” That’s very little.” 

” Oh, if you claim to be a cut above the ordinary 
labourer, a joiner or bricklayer, say, I couldn’t charge 
you less than twice as much.” 

” That still seems very little.” 

” Oh, but if you were as well off as the publican, or 
like the parson would be offended if you weren’t charged 
as though you were well off, I should make it from 
three to four guineas, according to the actual state of my 
conscience.” 

” And the squire ?” 

” You’re carrying your curiosity a little too high, 
Mr. Jack. How much I should charge such a gentle- 


RECOVERY 


221 


man as Mr. Lyddeker, supposing he did me the honour 
of being ill in my hands, would require a great deal 
more consideration than the prescriptions; would re- 
quire besides pen, ink and paper, with a little prepara- 
tory practice in the multiplication table. What is your 
next question?’’ 

“Nay, doctor. I’ve done with impertinences, I have 
only to thank you for your care and kindness. I do so 
most heartily.” 

“ What is all this preliminary to?” 

“ To my recovery.” 

“But I haven’t yet authorized you to consider your- 
self recovered.” 

“ I can compel myself to go, and I won’t stop a day 
longer.” 

“Oh, oh! now you talk like an autocrat, there’s 
nothing for me to do but to give a little extra attention 
to your bandages and to advise you for a week at least 
to walk as little as possible. Does this gentleman go 
with you?” 

“ If he will.” 

“ Put me down for number two, sir,” said the tramp. 
“ I’m gettin’ jolly well sick o’ seein’ the same walls an' 
furniture every mornin’ when I wake.” 

The doctor looked from the peer to the tramp, from 
the tramp to the peer. 

“ I can’t make you out,” he said. “ You’re evidently 

a gentleman, yet ” His glance went again to the 

tramp and returned. “You talk as though you had 
command of money, and you live upon the cadging 
of ” Again the turn and return of his eyes com- 

pleted his meaning. 

That slight further blanching of a pale face did not 
fully express the shock which Beiley felt. It was but 
the rending away of a doubt it is true, but when a doubt 
is the only cover one has against a despair, its loss is 
as the loss of a certainty, a necessity. 

“ I can’t make you out,” said the doctor again. 

“ Thank you for that too,” said Beiley. 

The doctor, being young and quick to take a hint, 


222 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


said no more; which self-restraint was perhaps the 
reason why he was called back after he had taken his 
leave. 

“ I may find,’’ said his patient, “ that I’m in debt to 
the people here in such a way that I can’t very well 
make any personal return for it. May I trouble you 
once more? Could you suggest something of public 
utility which I might offer in discharge of the liability?” 

The doctor answered without hesitation : 

“ What one sees depends, you know, on where one 
stands. The parson probably, if you had consulted him, 
would have mentioned the church organ’s desperate 
need of repairs. The schoolmaster’s special mania is 
for a scholarship at Sheffield University. A plebiscite 
would probably vote an addition to the usual redundancy 
of the Christmas fare. I following my private bias 
suggest that a subscription towards the establishment 
of a public nurse here wouldn’t be wasted money.” 

” Thank you.” 

The doctor departed. Beiley gave the tramp neither 
word nor look. Nevertheless the tramp presently arose 
and shuffled across to him from his own corner, not 
with the mien of a shamefaced person caught in a de- 
ception but of a lazy one forced into action. He had 
the stud and sleeve-links in his hand and dropped them 
on Lord Beiley’s knee. 

“ ’Ere, toff; I been on the square. I’m glad to git 
shut on ’em. Them there little bits o’ things has laid 
on where I puts my supper like a load o’ bricks. If I 
was sentenced to choose between keepin’ a jeweller’s 
shop an’ a cauffin shop. I’d say, ‘ Thank yer, my lord, 
the cauffins for me.’ ” 

“ Why didn’t you do as I told you with them ?” 

“Because the tother was the heasiest; an’ that’s all 
about it.” 

“ Why did you tell me you had?” 

“ ’S truth, toff, I reckoned it was your border, you 
bein’ so bad; so I measured yer ear an’ guv yer the 
hanswer what fitted it.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE ADMIRAL AND OTHERS 

The tramp made it his business during the rest of 
the day to let it be widely known that he and his mate 
were at last upon the move. 

“Thank yer, ma’am, it goes agin me to refuse the 
good victuals, which very like we shall be bad in want 
of ’em by this time to-morrer; but two pore cripples 
like me an’ my pal ull find it enough to do a thirty miler 
wivout anyfink to carry but ourselves an’ our sufferin’s. 
Gord bless yer, ma’am. It’s been like a little ’eaven 
below ’ere among all your kind Christian ’earts. I ’ope 
we shall meet again upon a better shore.” 

And so he got twopence instead of the mess of pud- 
ding and potatoes that had been offered him. 

During the day the wind backed to the west and 
brought with it so much fume and ash from the fire, 
that the vagrants had to keep the fodder-room door 
closed as a defence against it. Beiley sat alone in the 
early evening on the bag of maize under the window. 
He could hear the competitive voices of three women 
from the house, one within-doors, two without. He sat 
and tried to piece together their broken verbiage into 
a meaning; it was at any rate more amusing than the 
consecutive wrangling of his own thoughts. The door 
opened and let in, besides a waft of smoke. Partly and 
the stalwart form of Topley the butcher-publican of 
Brownley. The latter was uttering his final words about 
a fat calf he had been looking at. 

, “I’ll come again in a fortnit. It’ll be all that afore 
223 


224 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


I want him or he wants me.’’ He nodded towards Lord 
Beiley. “ Good-evenin’. A baddish accident that o’ 
yourn. How do yer find yerself to-day?” 

” Much better, thank you,” said Beiley. 

The tradesman, who had apparently been merely for 
looking into the room and withdrawing, directed his 
eyes more curiously towards the window. 

” Ever been to Hull ?” he said. 

” Once,” answered Beiley. 

“ What d’yer think to’t as a place o’ business?” 

” It seems a busy place.” 

” Speakin’ as a man with a bit o’ business o’ yer own 
to settle?” 

” Yes.” 

The atmosphere of the room was clouded with smoke 
and traversed by shadows. The butcher-publican struck 
a match and lighted his pipe, his eyes all the while 
upon the sitter under the window. As he dropped the 
glowing match-end and put his foot on it he said : 

” I reckon five shillings is enough to charge any man 
for supper, bed an’ breakfast. Don’t you, Tom?” 

” Heaps,” said Partly. 

” Loads,” said one of two men who had just come 
up to the door. 

” Hoceans,” said the other. 

The first-named was Coppin, a bricklayer of Lossing- 
ton, who was doing some repairs to Joe Carter’s roof 
and had looked in on his way home; a stumpy man 
with a big red face and a bald head. The second was 
his paddy or labourer, a gaunt unkempt tatterdemalion 
with eyes which were either fixed in a general stare or 
else wandered without control. He always went by the 
name of the Admiral and was supposed to be “ hafe- 
baked ” or half-witted, but he had a sort of spluttering 
promptitude of tongue though he sometimes made mis- 
takes about his work; never such mistakes however as 
tended to the increase of his own labour. 

” Can yer change me half a quid, Tom ?” said Topley. 
” A man as owes me a dollar sent me borders for two 


THE ADMIRAL AND OTHERS 


225 

sovereigns, and I want to leave the balance as I go 
past.’’ 

Partly went into the house for the change. 

I want your opinion, Coppin, o’ the cauf i’ th’ next 
hovel.” 

“ But Pm no judge at all o’ cauves, Mester Topley; 
my opinion’s worth noat.” 

“ If it’s worth noat yer needn’t hang back so from 
giving it away. I want yourn too, Admiral.” 

‘‘Ah, but my opinion is worth summat, Mester 
Topley; it’s worth a pint o’ beer the next time I goo 
to Brownley on business.” 

‘‘Yer shall have it. Admiral.” 

“ I’m gooin’ to Brownley on business to-morrer.” 

“ I’ll see to it. Off with yer.” 

The Admiral ready, Coppin reluctant, the two men 
went round the corner. Topley turned to Lord Beiley. 

“ I suspicioned summat the moment yer spoke, my 
lord. When I got ’ome again that day, which was late 
on account o’ business, there was a strange gentleman 
waiting to pump me about yer. I reckoned ’im up 
and told ’im you’d gone to Nesthorpe. The lie made 
itself ; the bill about it was on the table afore him. ‘ But 
I understand,’ says ’e, ‘as he’d no money.’ Having 
got the first lie so cheap I thought I could afford one o’ 
my own. ‘ He popped his watch,’ says I, ‘ for to raise 
the funds.’ ‘Sure ’e’s gone?’ says ’e. ‘Seed ’im on 
the way,’ says I; and to save more lying, ‘ I’ve got a 
ship to kill afore dark, sir,’ says I and goes out. There 
were no train to Nesthorpe that time o’ day so the 
gentleman stayed the night with uz, but he got no more 
out on me than that. Sorry I can’t ask yer to my house. 
My missis, yer see, ’s a woman with eyes that are only 
second-best to her tongue, and she’s on the look-out 
night and day for the man as slept in number one the 
latter end of last June.” 

‘‘ I trust to your discretion, Mr. Topley.” 

‘‘ Your lordship may trust as my discretion ain’t my 
wife’s an’ all, if that’s what yer mean.” 

15 


226 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


The calf-valuers were returning; Beiley dropped his 
voice yet lower. 

“ I found I was indebted to you for more than the 
drive. You must allow me to repay you at any rate the 
money value of your kindness.’’ 

The Admiral was already at the door, opinion 
and all. 

“ My opinion, Mester Topley,” he said spluttering, 
‘‘is as I’d sooner hae a joint on ’im smokin’ on a dish 
nor the hull three quarters on ’im eatin’ in a stall.” 

‘‘Three quarters? A cauf has fower quarters. 
Admiral.” 

‘‘Ay, but that tother quarter’s stuffin’. I heerd a 
woman say so the day afore yisterday, i’ my own bearin’. 
What’s your opinion, gaffer?” 

‘‘My opinion,” said Coppin heavily, ‘‘is the same 
as ’twere afore, that a cauf’s nayther brick nor mortar.” 

Partly returned with the change in company with Joe 
Carter. 

Said Topley, ‘‘ The last time I were the tother side o’ 
St. Ogg’s I gev a man a lift i’ my cart, ten mile or so. 
How much ought I to charge him?” 

‘‘ A stranger?” said Carter. 

‘‘Ay.” 

‘‘ Two shillin’,” said Carter. 

‘‘ Yo couldn’t say less,” said Partly. 

‘‘ Nor couldn’t say more,” said Coppin. 

‘‘ An’ a pint o’ beer,” said the Admiral. 

“ But I fell fast asleep and druv ’im another ten mile 
furder than I wanted to go.” 

‘‘ I don’t see as yo could charge him for that,” said 
Carter. 

‘‘ No,” said Partly. 

‘‘ Not likely,” sajd Coppin. 

‘‘ Nay,” said the Admiral, ‘‘ but if the man had gied 
yer the pint at th’ end o’ the fust ten mile, as he’d the 
raight to do, yo’d a wakkened up, Mester Topley. Yo 
moot mek ’im pay double, double money and double 
beer an’ all,” 


THE ADMIRAL AND OTHERS 


227 


‘‘ There’s a bit o’ nounce ^ i’ what yer say, Admiral,” 
said Carter. 

“Nay, Mester Carter,” replied the Admiral, “I’ve 
niver been in no company yit but what there’s been a 
bit o’ nounce theer.” 

With his back to the others Topley did something 
with a match-box. The gathering about the door had 
been increased by the entrance of Clagg, Munn and 
Tartar the dog. 

“ Do yer smoke?” said Topley to Lord Beiley. 

“Yes.” 

“ Then p’raps you’ll accept of this box of matches.” 

It felt heavy for a box of matches, but Beiley without 
thought put it away in his pocket. 

“ He moot feel,” said Clagg, “ welly like the man as 
w^ere fond o’ beef an’ got a Christmas gift o’ mustard.” 

“ Ay,” said the Admiral, “ he should a said he were 
main fond o’ matches, then he’d a gotten the bacca.” 

“ It’s not iv’rybody as has your gumption. Admiral,” 
said Topley. 

“ Yo’ve fun’ that out at last, Mester Topley,” said 
the Admiral. 

“ Nay, I fun’ it out a while aback, but I couldn’t make 
up my mind to acknowledge it. Well, I must be moving. 
Good-night, all.” 

As the butcher-publican went out the tramp entered; 
he had passed Jesse Bidden and Sid Jee in the yard. All 
now came into the room, and the door was shut just 
as Tartar was about to withdraw. He made no fuss; 
he went into the tramp’s corner, lay down on his straw, 
bit at a flea and immediately fell asleep. Beiley went 
back to his own lair and turned his face to the wall. 
There was an appearance of smoky light about the 
narrow window, but by the door, where the visitors 
stood with their indolent backs to wood or wall, there 
was hardly glimmer enough to divide the general shade 
into shadows. The tramp sat on his box and ate the 
supper he had brought with him. He had dropped the 
^ Sense. 


228 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


cant of the morning, as he always did at supper time; 
even as the tradesman at the due hour puts up his 
shutters and lapses into the private citizen. 

“Which road was yer thinkin’ o’ tekkin’, Jack?” 
asked Jesse. 

“ Dunno. May know to-morrer, when we’re started.” 

There was a pause of surprised pondering before Munn 
said slowly, thinking it out as he spoke : 

“Dunno? That’s a caution! An’ to-morrer’s so 
nigh ! Ommost to-day as yer might say. By gash, if 
I felt mysen hing so loose on to the worruld as that 
cooms to I should be afeared o’ failin’ off.” 

“ So should I, Mr. Munn, if I fell as ’eavy as you.” 

“ I wonner,” said the Admiral, “as yo bain’t scarred 
to dead o’ sleepin’ i’ strange beds, wi’ strange happins 
an’ strange fleas.” 

“ Oh, fleas is wonderful friendly beggars; they never 
makes theirselves strange wiv yer; an’ that’s ’ow ’tis 
yer feels at ’ome hanywhere.” 

“ Is that so?” said Clagg. “ Then fleas teks a sight 
less gettin’ used to nor women does. After all. Jack, 
Coppin’s a pluckier man nor yo, for he’s venterin’ it 
wi’d widder.” 

“ D’y’ ’ear, Coppin ?” said Sid. 

“ Ay,” said Coppin without sign of emotion. 

“ How did yer coom to ax ’er?” said Jesse. 

“ I can’t joost say.” 

“ Did she fair corner yer an’ fo’ce yer to’t?” said Sid. 

“ No, I can’t say as she did.” 

“ Yo know whether it wor to please yersen or sum’dy 
else surelye?” said Clagg. 

“Nayther; it joost ’appened.” 

“Then I withcall my opinion,” said Clagg. “It 
ain’t coorage, it’s joost want o’ sense.” 

Coppin seemed struck by that, though not stirred. 

“ Nay, nay,” he said, “ I don’t pretend to say what 
’tis, but it ain’t want o’ sense. It couldn’t be. A man 
couldn’t be wantin’ i’ sense wi’out knowin’ on’t; he’d 
hae sense enoo for that.” 


THE ADMIRAL AND OTHERS 


229 

‘‘It appears to me as y^ore i’d raight, *Arry,” said 
Partly. 

“ Nubbudy niver ’eerd me set mysen up for to be 
a witty man/’ continued Coppin thus encouraged, “ but 
Pve alius hed sense enoo for oat Pve iver wanted to do. 
An’ what ud be the sense o’ wantin’ more nor yer 
want ?” 

“ A bellyful,” said Jack, “ ’s as good as a belly-ache. 
If not better.” 

That called attention back to the tramp and his mate. 

‘‘We know,” said Jesse, ‘‘ as Jack Lig-down is or was 
i’ th’ tripe trade, but yo’ve never telled uz. Jack Sit- 
down, what trade yo’re in yersen.” 

‘‘ I bin a many many trades in my day.” 

‘‘Tell uz one.” 

‘‘I bin a fitter.” 

‘‘ What sort o’ trade’s that’n?” 

‘‘ A fitter does fittin’. It fitted me well till I got to a 
hiron an’ brass country.” 

‘‘ Why did yer drop it then ?” asked Jesse; “ What 
w^as yer next?” asked Sid; both together; and Jack 
answered the nearer. 

‘‘ A carpet-weaver.” 

‘‘ Is that good pay?” asked Jesse. 

‘‘ When yer can light on a job.” 

‘‘ Yo niver let on one, I reckon ?” said Clagg. 

‘‘Never.” 

Said Munn in his slow obese way, ‘‘ I can’t unner- 
stan’ a man changin’ ’is trade wi’ that freedom. I 
should think it moot feel ommost as bad as to be alius 
a-changin’ yer skin.” 

‘‘ Oh, it’s nuffin when you’re used to it. I dare 
say changin’ yer skin wouldn’t be; nor yer bones 
neiver.” 

‘‘I once knowed a man,” said Carter, ‘‘as changed 
his ockipation a deal. Fust ’e wor a baker, an’ then ’e 
wor one o’ them insurance chaps, an’ then ’e wor a 
butcher. But ’e never made noat out; his meat warn’t 
never prime, an’ ’is bread warn’t nubbut middlin’, an’ 


230 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


I don’t think nubudy’d ower much faith in his 
insurance.” 

” Rat-ketchin’ an’ cattle-doctorin’,” said Jesse, ” ain’t 
different professions ; they’re nubbut branches o’ t’ same 
profession.” 

“They’re as much t’ same, Jesse,” said Clagg, “as 
man an’ wife, eatin’ an’ drinkin’, roguery an’ prosperity, 
work an’ t’work’us.” 

“If a man hain’t the ’bility,” said Carter, “for to 
mek a livin’ at one trade, it stan’s to reason as ’e hain’t 
the ’bility for to mek a livin’ at two ’r three.” 

“ I b’lieve yer,” said the tramp. “ But yer overlook 
this, Mr. Carter; a man may make a livin’ out o’ failin’ 
to make a livin’ ; an’ the more trades ’e ’s the ’bility to 
fail at the better that livin’ ’ll be.” 

“There may be a little bit o’ summat i’ that,” said 
Munn slowly, as he chewed the meaning of it. “ Yo’re 
a more cleverer man. Jack, nor yo’ve any ’pearance o’ 
bein’.” 

“ Nay,” said Jack, “ I’ve a many lines but that 
ain’t one of ’em; nobody’s never took me for a clever 
man.” 

“ What do they tek yer for, mostly?” said Jesse. 

“ For a rogue an’ a vagabone.” 

Said Clagg : “ Do they gieyer both o’ them fine names 
for yersen or nubbut the pick on ’em ?” 

“Both.” 

“Then yo’re better off nor t’ Admiral; for when t’ 
squire called ’im ayther fool or knave tother day, ’e 
meant ’im to tek one an’ leave the tother.” 

“ Which on ’em did yer tek. Admiral?” asked Sid. 

“ Nayther,” answered the Admiral; “I’ve names 
enoo o’ my own; better uns an’ all. I left ’em, one for 
t’ squire, the tother for Clagg. An’ fine an’ bug o’ t’ 
change they was, I warrant.” 

There was a general laugh. 

“ Well done. Admiral !” said Jesse. 

“ Had yer theer, Clagg,” said Sid. 

“I did look at ’em. Admiral,” said Clagg, “ joost 


THE ADMIRAL AND OTHERS 231 

turn ’em ower wee a finger, but I seed they were such 
a grand fit for yersen I wouldn’t rob yer.” 

“ T’ squire seems loike to ha’ gotten the two on ’em,” 
said the Admiral. ” Well, he has the most raight to 
’em when all’s said an’ done; an’ m’appen the most 
need on ’em.” 

” Yo’re cornin’ out. Admiral,” said Sid. 

” I were born theer,” said the Admiral. 

A spring-cart drove by. 

” Mester Bradley coomin’ from t’ station,” said Jesse. 

” It’ll be nigh on eight o’clock toime,” said Sid. 

Somebody opened the door; Tartar had passed out 
before the entrance of the cool air qualified with peaty 
smoke could be felt. Such dim light as was admitted 
did not disturb the shadows. The gathering began to 
break up. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


GOLDEN BALLS 

Beiley awoke hungry at daybreak; he had not eaten 
anything since the doctor’s visit. The match-box put 
into his hand by Topley contained two pounds less nine 
and eightpence. He gave the tramp half-a-crown of it 
and sent him to the house to purchase milk, eggs, 
bread and butter, of which he made a good breakfast. 
He would then have started at once, but the tramp was 
so clever at inventing delay that it was nine o’clock 
before they left the fodder- room. The tramp wore a 
pair of stout boots in place of his worn-out shoes and 
a brown billycock instead of the motor cap. The black 
sling still hung from his neck, empty for the nonce. 

“ I can put eiver of my ’ands up in turn,” he said; 
“and besides bein’ a good fetch it’ll rest ’em. I wish 
I could put my ’ole bloomin’ body in at wunst.” 

But if Jack the tramp might have been congratulated 
on a slight improvement in his appearance. Jack the 
lord looked decidedly worse. There was a three weeks’ 
beard upon his chin, something perhaps for a disguise 
but not enough for a decoration. He retained the vicar’s 
black jacket and his legs were clad in shabby trousers 
of a flashy check, once the landlord’s of the Jolly 
Bargee. By turning them up he prevented their too 
great length from incommoding his heels. He still had 
Bertha’s bead ring upon his little finger. 

Mrs. Partly, summoned to the door by his knock, 
looked but sourly out upon the grey morning. His 
courtesy of word and hat seemed to squeeze from her, 
wring from her a sour brief return, a nod and a grunt, 

232 


GOLDEN BALLS 


233 

as it were the lees of kindliness; and she was turning 
from the door. 

‘‘ Stay, if you please. I want to know what return I 
can make you for the trouble we’ve given you.” 

There was a grim glint of satisfaction in the woman’s 
eyes, but her lips did not relax their tightness except 
just to let the words pass. 

“ What the danger o’ fire and what the muck wi’ all 
that mortaring in an’ out, I wouldn’t ha’ done it not 
for ten shillings a week.” 

” Yer wouldn’t, missis; quite right;” said the tramp, 
“for yer wouldn’t get nobody to pay such a semi- 
attached-villa price for yer old rat-’ole.” 

“Yer was quite free to leave it any time,” said the 
woman. “ If yer didn’t, ’twasn’tbecos yer was locked in.” 

“ Please to say how much,” said Lord Beiley. 

“ Then there was the blankets, as won’t be any use 
to me again, an’ them hoss-rugs, and there’s a hole in 
the bottom o’ the little bucket.” 

“ I did that, missis,” said the tramp, “ lookin’ at it 
passin’ tother mornin’.” 

Beiley took out Topley’s match-box and emptied its 
remaining contents into her outstretched hand. 

“ It’s all I have with me,” said he; “ if that doesn’t 
satisfy you, you must say what further I’m in your 
debt.” 

The woman’s “ I moot be content ” had surprise and 
satisfaction if not graciousness in it. 

“ Does that pay, missis,” said the tramp, “ for the 
rats an’ smoke, or are we still owin’ yer for them?” 

Mrs. Partly’s mind was rudely recalled from its half- 
content. 

“Yo’re used to getting accommodation for noat. 
Why didn’t yer go to the work’us? It’s the only place 
for sich uns as yo.” 

“ We stopped ’ere on account o’ yer own lovely mug 
an’ the smell o’ the muck-yard. The two togevver was 
too much for us ; they drored like a double-strenf diaclum 
plaster,” 


234 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“The droring was all of our side then; we wasn’t 
took wi’ yo ayther for yer looks or yer smell.” 

But even during the fine irony of his last words the 
tramp was turning the corner of the house. He was 
cunning; the housewife’s sufficient rejoinder was mere 
waste breath, for Lord Beiley took no share in it, as his 
civil good-day attested. 

It was a dull chilly morning with the fickle weather- 
cock pointing from the north-east. 

“Well, toff,” said the tramp, “which road are we 
to put our snouts for?” 

Beiley had thought it all out. From what w^as best 
he was still kept off by fear, by shame, by a resolute 
irresolution. Reckoning each weakness as a reason he 
had gone through a form of proving his folly to be 
rational. That slight hesitation before his answer was 
the measure of the time occupied in making a quick 
return to an older expedient ; which was rendered neces- 
sary by the new emptiness of his pockets. 

“ To Hull. How long will it take us to get there?” 

“ Depends ’ow much sweat w^e puts into it. I’ve took 
’alf a year to travel no furder, an’ I’ve done it in less 
’n a week.” 

“ A week? But by the nearest route going as fast as 
we can ?” 

“ I’ve no experience o’ sich, an’ to ’ear talk of it 
omost takes my bref. Workin’-men on the look-out 
for a job has to be partic’lar careful not to take the 
hedge off their appetite for work.” 

“ Is there any considerable town hereabouts wuthin 
easy reach?” 

“ Lessee. What makes a town considerable? ’Orse 
racin’? If so, why not Dauncaster? Or tauffey? If 
so, Dauncaster agin. Bein’ the St. Leger day it couldn’t 
a fell convenienter.” 

“ And how far is it to Doncaster?” 

“P’raps a dozen miles; p’raps a baker’s dozen. 
I’ve never been partic’lar to a mile or two, any more’n 
to a day or two.” 


GOLDEN BALLS 


235 


‘‘Twelve miles? Say three hours.” The tramp 
shrugged his shoulders. “Or allowing for my game 
leg ” 

“ Don't forgit my game 'and, toff.” 

“ Four hours.” 

“ What's the bloomin' 'urry?” 

“ I think we could raise the means there to finish the 
journey to Hull by train.” 

“ Don't, toff! I look on tin spent on train fares as 
so much good eatin' and' drinkin' chucked on the fire 
back. Yer may bet all you're worth as I never travel 
in them snorters 'cept at the expense of Goverment. 
It's quicker, y'ull say? But what is the bloomin' gain 
o' gettin' anywhere quick? Just this: that you're in 
time to get quick to somewhere else.” 

“ Anyhow we must walk it to Doncaster.” 

The tramp led the way by a roundabout field track, 
which at first skirted the burning field, but so that only 
the smell of it reached their nostrils. The gross reek, 
unable to rise in the dank air, lay upon it in a long un- 
broken trail but little elevated above the plain. It was 
near the end of harvest. The rich tints of the upstand- 
ing corn or of the stowks, ranked like an army under 
canvas, were but here and there apparent amid the paler 
gold of the stubble. The living green of the broad 
turnip enclosures was in strong contrast with the sombre 
colouring of decadent tree and hedge. As if inspired 
by his surroundings the tramp began to talk seriously 
to his comrade. 

“ Toff, I can see I shall 'ave trouble wiv yer.” 

“ I hope not. Jack.” 

“ 'Ope? What's the bloomin’ use of 'ope when the 
fat's fizzlin' in the fire?” 

“Wait till we get to Doncaster, Jack, and I'll make 
it up to you.” 

“Yer mean p'raps y'ave a little money on an event 
as is a dead cert? Toff, b'lieve me on my solemn 
sarmon, if I'd drored 'alf cash an' 'alf gas for all the 
promises I've 'ad give me founded on 'orse-racin' luck, 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


236 

I shouldn’t be ’ere now a-talkin’ to you; I should be 
sittin’ in my own parlour, an’ all the nobs of the county 
round me stuffin’ theirselves into a hagony of pleasure 
at my expense.” 

“ Well, Jack, I’ll make a bargain with you.” 

‘‘No, yer won’t, toff. I’ll tell yer for why; I never 
’ad a bargin hoffered me yet but what it was a reg’lar 
red-’ot drop-me-quickly sell.” 

‘‘ Well, if you object to that word — an agreement with 
you.” 

‘‘I’m agreeable, toff; chalk me down number two; 
if it’s you what’s goin’ to agree wiv me. If you’ll find 
all the give I’ll find all the take. I can’t say no fairer.” 

‘‘ It’s this : if you’ll give yourself a holiday from busi- 
ness until we reach Doncaster 1 promise to make the 
loss up to your own satisfaction.” 

‘‘Sounds nobby, toff; but I reckon that promise o’ 
yourn is a-top of a hif.” 

‘‘ I can’t deny it.” 

“ I knowed it. I never yet seed a promise on the 
level what I couldn’t look over wivout stretchin’ myself. 
’Owever — say it’s the summer vacancies — it’s a pore 
’eart what never rejices. Though the beauty o’ my 
perfession is this : that yer don’t never need no bloomin’ 
’olidays, y’ave sich a pleasure and a pride in yer in- 
dustry. It ud be all ’oliday, if only the sun ud stop 
out an’ the coppers keep in. Ah well, there’s dror- 
backs to ev’jyfink; continial mashed taters an’ sausages 
makes yer long for suffin less tasty for a change. Ever 
kep a little shop, toff?” 

“No.” 

“There must be pleasure in that — I’ve sometimes 
fancied it for myself, if ’twasn’t for bein’ tied to the 
same door-step an’ reg’lar hours — sellin’ margarine for 
butter, sand for sugar, gooseberry leaves for tea an’ 
turnips for jam; doin’ the women out of bounces of 
bread an’ swearin’ like a copper as a soft-roed un is 
hard. But lor love yer, that’s nuffin to our trade. Our 
sugar’s all sand; and inferior sand at that. I’ve copped 


GOLDEN BALLS 


237 


myself laughin’ in my sleep at it. Rum beggar sleep 
is, ain’t it? The flats swops us their brass for a mouth- 
ful o’ measly gab ; and all the thanks they gets is, we 
thinks ’em jolly mugs for so doin’.” 

By track and lane with many a rectangular turn they 
traversed that drain-parcelled level, crossed the slow 
river which receives its waters, and so entered Torby. 
The tramp kept his promise with reservations ; for once 
Lord Beiley, being a little ahead during their passage 
through that village, happened to look back and saw 
money pass between a woman and his companion. 

” You’re not keeping your word. Jack,” he said, as 
soon as they were past the town and within talking 
distance again. 

” Thought yer wasn’t lookin’, toff. ’Owever the 
donny didn’t give me nuffin, so I only amused myself 
a bit an’ no ’arm done.” 

” You’re an awful liar. Jack.” 

” Nay, toff, only when it’s convenient. I don’t call 
that bein’ a liar; I call them liars like Swelp-me 
Richards as goes out o’ their way to mysticate yer, an’ 
tires their tongues out wiv tollin’ corkers. But yer 
done it yerself, toff, when yer made me give yer that 
bloomin’ promise. I’ve got a reg’lar hitch now to try 
it on the most unlikely coves, out-an-out skinflint snouts. 
I feel jus’ like a cove I once knowed, a flue-faker,^ an’ a 
lusher if ever there was one. ’E us’ter sign the pledge 
every time afore ’e broke out on the booze, so as ’e 
might enjy it for all it was worth. ’Eaven, toff, if there 
ever is sich a place ” 

” I can’t say.” 

“ It’ll be a country where there’s law^s agin everyfink 
from breathin’ to bigamy, and the game’ll be to break 
’em wivout bein’ copped.” 

” And if you are copped?” 

“ Then you’re out till yer cop sum’dy else.” 

After which a period of silence and recuperation, 
while they travelled along a deserted lane. But whether 
^ Sweep. 


238 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


his tongue marched, marked time or stood at ease, the 
only change the tramp allowed his legs was from mere 
loafing to pure stoppage. Beiley, impatient to be at 
Doncaster, sometimes argued against his comrade’s 
dilatoriness, sometimes insulted it, now walked ahead 
and now abreast of him ; but could neither compel nor 
shame nor persuade him to increase his pace beyond an 
average of a mile and a quarter an hour. In argument 
the tramp appeared to have the better of it. 

‘‘ What’s the hurry? Want to see the races, toff?” 

”No.” 

” Any better wevver at Dauncaster?” 

” Not that I know of.” 

” Expect to be any ’appier when yer gits there?” 

“ Not a bit. I’ve business there; that’s all.” 

” Ho, that’s all? Well, I don’t see the bloomin’ fun 
o’ makin’ yerself a slave to business; not even if it 
was a cook-shop business — all grub what wasn’t profit. 
If it’s strong enough to dror me of itself, let it. I’m open 
to be ’elped along; if it ain’t, let it bide my time.” 

Beiley found walking on the worst failure of all. The 
tramp took the opportunity to sit and rest, until the 
peer returned and started him anew. 

” Toff,” said the tramp, ” I’ve ’ad a many pals, rank 
uns too, some, prigs, smashers, busters an’ screwsmen, 
cosh-carriers, sockiters, black blackguards every one on 
’em ; but I never yet ’ad sich a uncomfortable pal as 
yerself. Blame me if I wouldn’t sooner go co wiv a 
moty-car, an’ find all the snortin’ an’ puffin’, blowin’, 
sneezin’, stinkin’ an’ to-do myself.” 

So Beiley found that the best he could do was to 
thrust his hands and his impatience into his pockets, 
and take equal step for step with the tramp; careful 
not to assume the part of pace-maker by advancing so 
much as one inch to the fore or the tramp would im- 
mediately hang back, like an unwilling draught-horse 
that feels the collar; careful also not to fall behind by 
so much, for the tramp immediately took that as an 
invitation to stand and recover breath. Still they pro- 


GOLDEN BALLS 


239 


gressed, for they crawled out of one man-deserted bird- 
haunted lane into another and another, and so on to 
the great highway, which undulated nobly through a 
generous land of park and wood, of corn and pasturage ; 
a perfect road from the cyclist’s point of view, and 
decorated moreover with a double row of telegraph poles. 
It was yet such an hour in the afternoon, that they were 
passed by a few belated motorists and cyclists, scorching 
along in hope to arrive at Doncaster in time for the 
great event of the day. 

They were however barely two miles nearer to the 
town when the tide of traffic began feebly to turn the 
other way; one or two dusty cyclists, a couple of puny 
dejected town lads, a countryman and his family in a 
spring-cart drawn by a plodding pony, a farmer of the 
neighbourhood staggering deviously and stopping every 
now and then to shed maudlin tears over a rosette of 
gay ribbons which he carried in his hand, a respectable 
pink-cheeked papa with his three blooming daughters 
driving away in their wagonette before the rabble 
raised the dust, a Punch-and-Judy man carrying his 
show on his back while dog Toby with a frill round his 
neck trotted by his side, a trim motor-car fussing along 
laden with smart people, three or four field-labourers 
beerily argumentative. Yet more weary pedestrians 
more or less sober, more vehicles, more bicycles and 
motor-cars, and that dribble of folk increased gradually 
Co a stream. Whenever Jack the tramp stopped to look 
on Jack the lord perforce did the like. 

They had approached so near the course that they 
distinctly heard the babel of sounds, exultant shout, 
disappointed howl, hurrah, boohoo, whistle and roar, 
which announced the termination of the last race of the 
day. Through the waftage of the cars dust became the 
most noticeable ingredient in the air. It overlaid with 
its own dead earthy hue the living green of tree, hedge 
and herbage ; it fouled everything, it disturbed the 
breathing and annoyed the eyesight. Perhaps that was 
why Beiley was so slow in coming to a sense of his 


240 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

position. He was standing side by side with the tramp, 
looking at a four-in-hand that was rolling by at a smart 
trot. Suddenly he was aware that he knew the bearded 
man with the beribboned whip, knew his moustached 
friend on the box beside him, knew the lady in the 
peacock blue, whose beauty was a sort of pink insolence, 
knew that other lady whose beauty was but a pale lang- 
uor, knew — in short knew them all. He stood until 
the coach was out of sight, then went aside by the first 
gate into a field and sat down under the hedge. 

“ It’s the fust sensible thing y’ave done, toff,” said 
the tramp, ” since I’ve ’ad the honour of knowin’ yer. 
Couldn’t yer chew a mite?” 

Lord Beiley could not chew, or if he chewed it was 
such stuff as was dry of nourishment ; so the tramp had 
the bread and cheese which he had brought with him to 
himself. 

An hour later, the throng having diminished to a few 
stragglers, it was Beiley’s imperative will that they 
should rise and proceed upon their way, not without 
protest querulously humorous on the tramp’s part. 

Blame it, toff,” he said, ” y’ud oughter bin born a 
jack-i’-the-box. Them what put a man inside yer spiled 
yer.” 

Soon they were passing the race-course, which lay 
open to the road. The huge expanse, so lately of 
nature’s green, was everywhere defiled by dust, littered 
with paper, down-trodden by the profane heel of man 
and disfigured by his waste and disorder. Of all the 
vast throng which had possessed it there were but the 
paltry dregs on show; half-a-dozen wheelmen getting 
their bicycles out of storage, two or three vans full of 
noisy companions starting for distant towns or villages, 
little groups of men and boys wrangling over their beer 
and losses, a couple of stout beefy fellows belabouring 
a starveling defaulter, a few painted women flaunting 
their wretched wares and angling for custom, two or 
three news-vendors proffering the history of the day’s 
races and the prophecy of the morrow’s, a tract-distrib- 


GOLDEN BALLS 


241 


utor giving away the last of his lightly esteemed pam- 
phlets. The tipsy went off in the slack care of the 
less tipsy, the stall-keepers were packing up, there were 
no riders for the gipsy’s donkeys, no buyers for the 
hawker’s toffee, few passengers for either horsed vehicle 
or electric tram. The scavengers were already busy 
with their necessary brooms. Still here and there idle, 
hopeless or homeless persons lounged vacuously, sat 
uncomfortably on the rails and occupied the seats ; while 
to and fro went the police stolidly observant, and over 
all hung the sullen sky of one indifferent grey. 

As Beiley and his companion passed on into the town 
the numbers which encumbered the streets increased. 
And now the late sun, which had hidden all day, showed 
himself through some flaw or threadbare place in his 
concealment; so however that there was no appearance 
of riven cloud and peering luminary, but rather of a 
great sombre curtain hung up behind a red lamp, spher- 
ical, magically upheld. That on the left over the house- 
tops; on the right the conspicuous spire of a church, 
in the midst the rabble and the street. For a minute 
or two; then the clouds began again to obscure the 
light-giver, defaced it, ate it away, had their will again 
completely from zenith to horizon. The spire too was 
put out of sight by the crowding-in of the houses ; only 
the rabble remained, nay increased the further they ad- 
vanced into the town. But Beiley drew the tramp into 
a by-street, spoke confidentially and put a gold pencil- 
case into his hand, together with the studs which he 
had before entrusted to him. 

“ If you can raise five or six pounds on them,” he 
said, ” I shall be satisfied. They must be worth at 
least ten times as much.” 

The tramp thrust them back into the peer’s hand. 

“ Stow it, toff ! sharp ! I smells bovver. I ain’t par- 
tic’lar chice about stinks, I don’t expect it to rain eau- 
dy’C’logne, but bovver has a smell that rank I can’t 
abide it.” 

They returned to the more populous streets, where the 
16 


242 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


roadway from wall to wall swarmed with a mixed throng 
of leisurely loungers, elbowing rowdies, felonious loiterers 
and business men on business intent. While the sounds 
that occupied the air were as incongruously mingled, 
holloas, whistles, hoots, subdued tones, curses, cadging 
whines, the monotonous reiterations of street-vendors, 
doleful hymn-singing, snatches of vulgar song, empty 
yells and laughter. The tramp stopped at the first 
pawnbroker’s, otherwise his companion had hardly 
noticed the golden symbol of the trade and the inscrip- 
tion offering loans upon the security of jewellery, plate 
and wearing apparel. He had never before been put to 
his shifts, and the face he turned to the shop door was 
more than sufficiently tragic. The pause he made be- 
fore entering was only momentary, but there was time 
enough for the tramp to stay him by the sleeve. 

‘‘ ’Old ’ard, toff,” he said; “a mug like that’ll give 
yer away as safe as if y’ud split on yerself for to git the 
reward. Gi’ me the bits o’ red; I’ll spout ’em. I 
don’t cotton to bein’ put away while there’s the chanst 
o’ sunshine, but if I am in for it I may as well be in 
for it as a principal as a ’cessory.” 

He took the jewellery back and entered the shop. But 
it was the races, and besides the broker’s assistant had 
recently caused his employer loss by innocently acting 
as the receiver of stolen goods; he was eager to re- 
establish his reputation for acuteness; he easily suc- 
ceeded in encouraging his first suspicions of his dis- 
reputable customer; he sent for the police. Beiley 
already uneasy at the delay followed the constable in, 
and saw the tramp at the far end of the shop being 
confronted by the questioning faces of master, man and 
police. He went straight up to them. 

” I don’t want to get this man into trouble,” he said. 
” The things are mine. I am Lord Beiley.” The three 
pairs of questioning eyes were transferred to himself. 
“ Be good enough to let him go. I’m quite ready to 
make all the explanations that you are entitled to 
require.” 


GOLDEN BALLS 


243 


The shabby man’s complete courtesy, low-pitched self- 
assertion, perfect balance, quelled rising suspicion before 
it had time to shape itself. 

“ No further explanation required, my lord,” said 
the police-constable with the proper salute. 

‘‘ If you like to apply in your own person, my lord,” 
said the broker, ‘‘ there won’t be any difficulty about us 
doing business together. To any amount; on your 
personal security.” 

But Beiley was fain to escape the excited curiosity, 
however veiled with respect, of those half-dozen eyes. 

“ Thank you,” he said, ‘‘ I will not trouble you any 
further. Good-day.” 

Muttered the tramp, “ Fink I must ’ave my ’ead 
pretty well tiled or there wouldn’t be a slate left for to 
keep the rain out arter all this.” 

He followed Beiley down the street at the proper dis- 
tance of a hanger-on. Until presently the peer turned 
and said : 

‘‘ Come along. Jack.” 

The tramp shuffled up the two or three yards that 
separated them. 

“So y’er a real all-alive-oh toff arter all?” he said. 
“ How did yer git broke ?” 

“ By my folly. My madness, if you like.” 

“ No chice, toff; if they’re boaf same price. I never 
knowed a madman but what ’e was more or less of a 
fool.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


SOLE EXECUTRIX 

They passed through the market-place, where there 
were shows and roundabouts and a mob getting what 
amusement it could out of the din of rival bands, the 
flare of many unsteady lights, much jostling and up- 
roar, and the sight of two little girls shuffling their satin 
shoes on a yard’s breadth of stage. 

“Am I to try my luck agin, toff?” said the tramp, 
not very willingly. 

Beiley espied a pawnshop on the other side of the 
way. 

“Yes. No, thank you.” 

Perhaps in the non-interval between the yes and the 
no he had had a flashlight glimpse of the meanness of 
being the street-loitering sender of such an embassy. ! 
He strode across and entered the shop, swallowing by j 
the way a full meal of petty dislikes, squeamishnesses, | 

prides and prejudices. He had been so well educated in | 

the avoidance of all avoidable unpleasantness, that we j 
may surmise he had within his narrower breast some- .1 
thing of the swollen feelings of a hero marching towards | 
heroism. j 

All seemed to be going smoothly. The assistant ; 
offered him within ten shillings of the sum he himself 
mentioned, entered his name without sign of surprise 
and was engaged on the necessary clerk-work, when * 
the master of the shop came by, made a casual inquiry, i 
flushed all over his pale face and wfflite forehead, sent • 
his man on an errand to the other end of the shop and 
then put the pledges back in Beiley’s hand. He was = 

244 ' 


SOLE EXECUTRIX 


245 


a dapper plump fair-haired white-skinned clean-shaven 
little man, and the pomposity of his manner was 
mitigated by a slight lisp. 

‘‘ I regret, my lord,’’ he said — he was already pale 
again — ‘‘that I feel mythelf compelled to decline the 
tranthaction.” 

Beiley neither inquired nor went away. He was 
tired; he did not rise from the chair on which he sat; 
the tradesman’s refusal seemed to arouse no resentment 
in him nor even curiosity. The tradesman apparently 
was embarrassed by his remaining. 

“I hope your lordthip,” he said, “won’t inthitht 
upon an explanation.” 

Beiley did not even look across at the man’s face as 
he said without emphasis : 

“ I believe it will be a relief to yourself.” 

“ Quite to the contrary, my lord.” 

But Beiley’s gaze rested aimlessly upon a pair of 
corduroy trousers, cheap, our own style, eight and six 
The pawnbroker’s eyes measured the sufficiency of the 
distance from his assistant’s ears. 

“ I have a perthonal reathon, my lord,” he said, and 
again a brief girlish flush overspread his face, “for 
rethenting that particular form of cruelty. And I quite 
believe that thome women might feel it more than any 
man could.” He was quite pale again. “ I beg leave, 
my lord, to rethent it not for the man’th thake but the 
woman ’th.” 

Lord Beiley rose, bowed low to the little pawnbroker, 
saying : 

“ Somebody, sir, who is worthy shall thank you for 
the woman.” 

He went out. He understood at last that he would 
have to do something unpleasant one way or another. 
He returned to the first pawnbroker’s. 

“ Blame my perspicussity if it ain’t the boss!” 

The words and the well-known voice stayed him even 
on the threshold of the pawnshop. He turned and be- 
held Sambo, corked smile, banjo, obesity and all. 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


246 

‘‘What are you doing here?” said he, apparently 
having forgotten Sambo’s promise to visit Doncaster. 

“ Trying my luck, boss. Which has resulted in my 
luck trying me. In other words I’m outside the Sow 
in Sunshine.” 

The corked hilarity on Sambo’s face was succeeded 
by a corked depression, well intended, not wholly un- 
successful. Over his shoulder Beiley saw next door the 
upper storey of a squeezed-in little public-house decorated 
with the representation of a golden pig wallowing in 
red paint. He said : 

‘‘ The musical taste of Doncaster is no better than that 
of Nesthorpe, I’m afraid.” 

‘‘I can’t complain; considerin’ we’re now in the 
present century. Besides it’s been a good day for the 
backers, which always tends to swell the musical in- 
stincts of the nation, which is ever sound at ’eart, 
though sometimes suffers theirselves to be kidded by 
white calicker, zinc ointment and roodge.” 

The more bombastic Sambo’s language the more suc- 
cessful became his putting-on of depression, 

‘‘Then I’m to congratulate you?” 

‘‘ I accept your congratulations for ’aving earned the 
tin; and if you’ve more congratulations left than what 
you’ve got friends. I’ll accept some for not ’aving in- 
vested it in landed property. I laid it all on the favour- 
ite. I was told it was a dead certainty, I found it a 
dead failure. The chap as gave me the tip. I’ve met 
him since and he claims it was something to be right 
about the ‘ dead.’ ’Alf right he called it. Which was 
all the doctor could say for himself when he introduced 
the wrong party to the right dose. Stone-broke now 
spells the condition of my finances, boss, and I don’t 
think yourself’s swimming in tenners just now. What 
do you say to making a pitch round the first quiet corner, 
us two, boss ; again the church, say ? Considering the 
shades of evening are stealing — in fact have already 
boned everything that’s boneable — considering too the 
day-after-the-party gloom on yer own aristoscratchit 


SOLE EXECUTRIX 




countenance and the general lushiness of ©ur noble 
patrons the public, I think, . as the only original last 
remaining exponents of hgh art, we might for once 
venture to take your corking as done.’* 

It may seem strange, but Lord Beiley was attracted 
by the proposal ; as he would have been by almost any- 
thing that offered him an escape from the civilities of 
that pawnbroking establishment. 

“ What d’yer say? Don’t yer feel a curiosity to try 
if” — instead of the word Sambo lightly tum-tummed 
on his banjo the opening strains of ‘Dinah’ — “will 
fetch the sympathies of the won’t-go-home-till-morn- 
ing tyke as completely as it did a certain noble lady’s, 
whose name’s not to be named in the same breath as 
booze?” 

“ Wait here a minute.” 

With an instantaneous change of front Beiley strode 
into the shop ; he deposited the pledge and returned to 
the street. 

“I’m going to have a cup of tea. Will you come 
with me?” 

“ Yours till death, boss. And a plate of ’am, if I 
might presume.” 

The tramp went in search of a refreshment house to 
his own taste; the whilom partners entered the nearest 
restaurant, which was in such a tumult of coming and 
going, of ordering and settling, of exulting and disput- 
ing, that its staring bedizenments were lost in the 
general hustle-bustle, noise and dust. With difficulty 
the two got seated, with more difficulty served in a 
waiter-forgotten corner behind an unnecessary stove. 
Such was the preoccupation of everyone’s ears with his 
own voice, that they might have discussed matters more 
delicate than a man’s business credit, more dangerous 
than his murder without any third body being the wiser. 
Sambo however was unusually silent, which was ac- 
quiesced in by Beiley but which he himself thought it 
necessary to apologise for. 

“ What with the plenty o’ grit and mustard and real 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


248 

Yorkshire-’ Ampshire smoke, this bit of ’am’s as en- 
grossing as love or toothache to a man as hasn’t eat 
anything solid between now and eight o’clock. On my 
honour, boss, I felt so low just now I was on the brink 
of buying a box of aperient pills off a cadger with my 
last penny by way of a tummy-filler; but the box 
was so little and the tummy so big and empty, that 
I come round to thinking it ud be a better move, the 
town being chock-full, to try and let it off as an 
unfurnished apartment.” 

After that he again kept a well-occupied silence until 
he broke it for the grateful acceptance and the vociferous 
ordering, competitive with many loud voices, of a third 
plate of ham. But while he was waiting for his plate’s 
tardy re-appearance, and had nothing to do but clear 
his teeth with tongue and suction of the particles of 
rich fat and high-flavoured lean which had lodged be- 
tween them, he said : 

” By the bye, boss. I’d almost forgot ” 

The pause he made was so significant that Beiley 
raised his weary eyes from the stained marble of the 
table. With a smack of loud satisfaction Sambo freed 
tw^o of his hindmost molars of a fleshy shred unusually 
stringy and obstinate. 

“I’ve a message for you from a certain lady you 
and me knows of.” 

Beiley showed no emotion ; perhaps because the pale- 
ness of before was so complete that the paleness of after 
was allowed no room for distinction. 

” That is I have it and haven’t it, if you understand 
me.” 

“ I don’t.” 

Sambo put his thumbs in his arm-holes and leaning 
back tilted his chair up on its hind legs, completely at 
his leisure. 

” It’s something like this: Let’s suppose I offered 
you the modest treat of a half-pint, and let’s suppose 
you put out your ’and for it, and let’s suppose I let go 
before you fingered. That ud be a case of ’aving and 


SOLE EXECUTRIX 


249 


not ’aving. Or if you incline to think it ud be slightly 
more not ’aving than ’aving, I’ll give in to you to that 
extent. Do you tumble to it now?” 

“What is it?” 

“ She rode past next day. I was doing a bit of a 
turn up in the town, thinking p’raps I shouldn’t feel 
so ’umpish as in the more familiar atmosphere of the 
sands. It was a third-rate funeral, boss. I treated my- 
self to an extra stiffener or two, but for all they was 
worth to me they might ’ave been lowering medicine, 
something to take off fat and put on bile. When she 
come up I was positively chanting to two perambulators, 
a sandwich man, a butcher’s boy and his basket.” 

“Well?” 

“ She chucked me ’alf a dollar and an only ’alf- 
deserved compliment on the performance. ‘ Where’s 
your friend?’ says she. Wouldn’t yer think that by 
this time they could have fatted a pig, killed it, cured it, 
growed some parsley, boiled a ham and served ’em both 
up together?” 

“ What did you say?” 

“ I told her you’d chucked the artist and retired into 
the privacy of private life. ‘ Why?’ says she. ‘ Becos,’ 
says I ” 

But at last the ham had appeared. 

“ I’m afraid you’ve ’urried this ’am,” said Sambo. 

“ Not at all, sir,” said the waiter. 

“ It seems all of a sweat; but p’raps it’s with business 
anxieties or religious hydriphobia. Well, remember I 
shall expect a tip from you when I go.” 

“From me, sir? Why, sir?” 

“ Becos it’s me that’s been the waiter.” 

“Very good, sir,” said the waiter with a smile that 
had vanished before it had appeared. 

Sambo applied himself to the third plate as if it had 
been the first. Beiley showed no impatience. Pre- 
sently the mountebank looked up and said through a 
full mouth : 

“Oh, her ladyship! ‘Why?’ says she. ‘Becos,’ 


250 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

says I — Notice that little wizzendy chap who’s just rose 
from the third table from ’ere?” 

“No.” 

“ It’s Green the famous booky. I’ll bet you anything 
from last Tuesday week to a gold mine, as you couldn’t 
tell from his phiz whether he’s ten thousand to the good 
or the same to the bad to-day. ‘ Becos,’ says I, ‘he 
don’t know where his talents lays.’ ‘ I’m afraid that is 
so,’ says she. This ’am reminds me — ’Ave you ever 
’eard of the parson as thanked Providence for creating 
man to eat pig, when it might just as heasy have created 
pig to eat man?” 

“ No.” 

“Oh, a well-known fact; quite ’istorical; that is it 
may ’ave been or it mayn’t ’ave been. But Lady — hm 
— ‘Afraid that is so,’ says she. ‘Shall you be seeing 
him again soon?’ ‘If I don’t, yer ladleship,’ says I, 
dropping into the artist, ‘ it’ll only be becos he ain’t in 
sight. But dere am finny fishes — I mean finny-ties be- 
tween us, which if all de lies dat folks say am true, won’t 

let us stop apart.’ ‘ If you do,’ says she, ‘ you might ’ 

At that moment there come a look over her face as if 
she was spotting a lady friend’s bonnet a mile off, or 
doing a hard compound substruction sum in her own 
’ead. ‘ I’s listenin’, yer ladleship,’ says I, ‘ but I don’t 
’ear nuffin but ‘ fresh mackerel^ three a shillin’.’ She 
come out of her arethmetic face, drew off her left-’and 
glove — there was a ring on that ’and as shone like a 

Drury Lane sunset — and says, ‘ Tell him as ’ But 

she saw my attention was on ’er ’and and says, ‘ Are 
you a judge of rubies?’ ‘ So much so,’ says I, ‘ that 1 
don’t know when I see one from when I don’t.’ ‘ Well,’ 

says she, ‘ will you please say ’ Then just when 

the int’rust was coming in the same thing happened 
as the day afore. ’Er ’orse ran away with her again. 
I watched her out o’ sight with sympathy; for I’ve 
been run away with once myself. A once which I can 
assure you don’t mean twice.” 

Beiley rose with an abruptness that compelled Sambo 


SOLE EXECUTRIX 


251 


to compress his last three mouthfuls into one ; a necessity 
which effectually gagged him from that final humorous 
altercation with the waiter which he had promised him- 
self. The tramp was waiting at the door. Beiley put 
a sovereign into the minstrel’s hand. 

“I feel,” said Sambo, “as if I’d had a fortune left 
me, boss. D’yer know what I’m going to do with this 
’ere last instance of your magnaminity? I’m going 
straight to Deborah ; as straight circumbendibus as the 
Great Northern can take me. From ’alf past five, p.m., 
till I’d the good luck to meet yourself. I’d been ockipy- 
ing myself principally in promising myself to do it with 
the first quid I made; and I’m going to do it. True; 
no kid.” 

“ You’ve made up your mind?” 

“ No, she has.” 

“ Good luck go with you,” said Lord Beiley. 

The remainder of the pawn-money he divided between 
himself and his new comrade, and by half past ten the 
two arrived at Hull. 

At ten o’clock next morning Beiley stood once more 
outside the money-lender’s door. Above the soiled steps 
the door stood wide open, but with a mercenary hos- 
pitality. On either side the entrance was decorated with 
a large poster announcing the sale that day by auction 
by order of the sole executrix of the late J. H. Percival 
Esquire, deceased, of the superior household furniture 
and office fittings thereunder enumerated. While he 
stood and looked down the columns of items blankly 
with a mere appearance of reading, the porter who 
stood in his shirt-sleeves on the top of the steps 
addressed him. 

“ Yer can coom in; they’re on view.” 

He went in, out of a present inability to set his feet 
and intentions in another direction. There was the 
usual gathering in the dirty passages and disconsolate 
furniture-lumbered rooms of pencil-sucking dealers, of 
parties about to marry, of bargain-hunting women and 
aimless idlers. He went through every room and saw 


252 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


nothing. He had just regained the street, when Miss 
Percival in all the ostentation of deep mourning stepped 
out of a brougham to the pavement. He hoped to 
pass unrecognized; but she immediately addressed him. 

“You have come to see me?“ 

“I came,“ he stammered, “hoping — expecting — to 
see “ 

“Ah well, that’s the same thing now, you know. 
Come in.” 

She led him into one of the smaller rooms. She was 
at first for shutting the door^ but on second thoughts 
left it open. 

“ I might be shutting out a buyer, you see,” she 
said. 

“ I regret to hear of your loss,” said he. 

“ Thanks awfully. I was a great deal more cut up 
than anybody would think; though I don’t pretend, and 
never did, to approve of all the pater’s investments. 1 
considered that with such a fortune as ours we were 
entitled to put security before everything. It was the 
only serious difference of opinion we ever had, that’s 
some comfort. You haven’t settled that little affair of 
yours yet, I see. You must be awfully wanting in savoir 
faire. And you’re looking simply ghastly.” 

“ I came hoping to arrange — but of course — now ” 

“ Another advance? I knew you would come again. 
But I’ve quite shut up shop, you see. I intend hence- 
forth to be the lady and nothing but the lady. I’ve 
had a thousand per cent, offered me without tempting me 
one scrap. All outstanding business I’ve put into my 
solicitor’s hands. Of course I shall keep a sharp eye 
on him in a ladylike sort of way.” 

Hereupon a man and a woman entered the room to 
look at lot 1 12, coal-box and pair of pictures. Miss 
Percival, desirous not to hamper their discussion, drew 
Beiley out and finished the colloquy on the landing, 
which happened just then to be clear. 

“ The pater has left everything to me. But of course 
he was too level-headed to fritter away his money on 


SOLE EXECUTRIX 


253 


distant relatives or hospitals or other nonsense. He cut 
up unexpectedly fat. He trusted me, you know, but he 
didn’t tell me everything. That’s as it should be; one 
should always know a little more, think a little more 
and have a little more than one lets on. If you married 
me it would be so with me; I should be often giving 
you little surprises one way or another. You needn’t 
fear you’d find me monotonous.” 

They had to stand aside to let two porters and a chest 
of drawers go by. Then she resumed : 

“ How old are you?” 

‘‘ Twenty-six.” 

” A nice age for the man. I’m twenty-one.” 

She looked rather more; but perhaps she was pro- 
vidently beginning already to reserve little surprises 
for him. 

“You may enter it in your note-book that I turn 
the scale at half a million. I shan’t need to advertise 
myself. I’ve had heaps of very decent offers already.” 

“ I hope you will be happy,” said Beiley very coldly, 
“ with the man of your choice.” 

“ I mean to be happy, with him or without him. 
Why shouldn’t I be? I’m rich, young, good-looking, 
healthy and sensible. That last’s a more important 
item, I believe, than you quite grasp.” 

A lady who was passing, an acquaintance it seemed 
of Miss Percival’s, stopped to shake hands and with 
a congratulatory-condoling face to inquire after her 
health. 

“ Thanks awfully. I’m quite as well as could be ex- 
pected. Just stop a minute.” That to Beiley, who 
was offering to take his leave. “ It has been such a 
fearful shock.” 

“ I think you bear up wonderfully. I can hardly 
realize it myself, dear, yet. I’ve just run in to look 
at the blankets; I could do with a couple of pairs of 
really good ones.” 

“ They are in the first room on the next floor. I 
shall see you again before you go.” 


254 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


The friend passed on. 

‘‘One’s obliged to talk so,” said Miss Percival, 
“to people of a certain class. Pve known for years 
it has been touch-and-go with the pater ; so why should 
I be obliged to be surprised ? I can be reasonably sorry 
without any fuss.” 

“Allow me to ” 

“One moment. I think you’re making a mistake. 
I’m a good manager both of men and money. I can’t 
give the pater as a reference. I should have kept you 
out of further mischief, you may rely on that. Again, 
I’ve a good deal to say for myself and you appear to 
have very little. Just the proper contrast. Must you 
go? Well, au revoir. If within a reasonable time 
you’d like to buy your watch back I dare say my 
solicitor could arrange with you. His address is on 
the bills.” 

This new disappointment was to Beiley like that 
douse of cold water which assists the resolution of a 
bed-bound sluggard. Nevertheless his inclination was 
still towards waiting to be helped out rather than 
coming out. He met Jack the tramp according to 
agreement outside his hotel. 

“ What’s the next town the other side of Doncaster?” 
asked he. 

“ ’Pends which road yer goes,” answered the tramp. 
“ There’s Sopworth one road, there’s Rother’am 
another.” 

“Sopworth will do.” 

Lord Beiley’s recollection of the name of the little 
town whither he had gone with Bertha in the motor- 
car was latent, but perhaps unconsciously influenced 
his selection. He re-entered the hotel and straightway 
wrote a letter to his agent, containing these instruc- 
tions : 

“ Address by return to Mr. John Johnson, Poste 
Restante, Sopworth, ;^5oo in small notes. 

“ Post anonymously two ;£5o notes to Dr. Beards- 
ley, Lossington, Notts; one in recognition of his 


SOLE EXECUTRIX 255 

services to two late patients of his^ the other towards 
the institution of a parish nurse at Lossington. 

“ As soon as I hear from you it is my intention to 
leave the country. I will keep you informed of my 
whereabouts. But I desire this and all my future com- 
munications to be a strict secret between you and me.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

IN THE PARK 

Lord Beiley rested his leg that day and on the 
following one travelled by rail to Sopworth. For the 
better disguise he had not except in the matter of clean 
linen made any alteration in his dress. He called at 
the post-office, but there was nothing for John John- 
son. His agent was taking a holiday on the Continent, 
and as his envelope was marked ‘‘private*’ with a 
double underlining it had been forwarded unopened. 
Not knowing this he thought only of occupying with 
something a little less irksome than vacancy the two 
or three hours until the next post. The sun shone 
brightly and perhaps influenced his choice of direction. 
Anyhow he and the tramp set their faces towards it, 
and strolled away from the little town by a footpath 
which led southwards through gently rising enclosures 
of very light land. The haze that obscured the horizon 
told of the heat; save for that the sky was of a fault- 
less blue ; the air was still ; the hum of an industrious 
bee as it visited in turn each bell of a solitary fox- 
glove was a fuller sound in their ears than that far-off 
town-ward chime. Yet man-made things being so 
much nearer to our thoughts than things natural, it 
was of the latter that the tramp spoke. 

“ ’Twas a downy dodge o* the parsons to kid the 
folks into cornin’ an’ ’earin’ an’ bein’ collected wiv a 
dinner bell. It ud be a rare draw the fust time. But 
strike me, what I can’t understand is, as it continues 
to be a draw. Folks can’t any on ’em, y’ud think, be 

256 


IN THE PARK 257 

made so judgmentless in their innards as to take psalm 
an’ sarmon for a bellyful.” 

After two miles of field walking they passed by a 
bridle-gate into a nobly-timbered park. There was 
sunshine in the broad drives, shade under the thick 
trees and an interchange of both along the grassy 
walks. They sat or sauntered; their loitering had not 
the conscious toil of an aim. The day having reached 
its summit seemed to brood there, resting from the 
long ascent, deferring for a little while the easy labour 
of decline. The woodland sounds, being natural, were 
such as did not break its rest. A jay uttered a depart- 
ing scream ; a disputatious squirrel chattered from a 
safe bough ; a rabbit scampered through the fallen 
leaves; an unseen woodpecker tapped. 

Beiley had been there before but his recognition was 
tardy. There is some excuse. Woodland scenery does 
not offer itself to the eye with the brazen effrontery of 
the street. Its beauties are coy nymphs that peep and 
hide, hide and peep ; not to speak of the wide seasonal 
variations, they change momentarily with the changing 
day and disdain to wear the same dress for a second 
glance. Besides his eyes were not entirely outward 
that day; they were largely upon the future and more 
especially upon the past. For a long time he had not 
spoken ; the tramp’s passing remarks went for nothing. 
All at once, whether by the medium of sight or mere 
sensation, he became aware that the sun was getting 
low. It was at the meeting of two walks. He stood 
as though purposing to return. At the same instant 
it came to him that he knew the place; he remembered 
walking there during his stay with Mrs. Houghton. 
And Mrs. Houghton and Bertha were before him. 
Possibly the subtle stimulus of their unseen presence 
had excited the sluggish recognition of his eyes. It 
was too late to turn, to depart, to flee, for Bertha had 
seen him. 

“Jack!” she cried, and ran up to him. She had 
a doll in her arms. 

17 


258 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


That’s my name, missy, sure enough,” said the 
tramp. 

The child turned her eyes on him with a disgusted 
surprise which Beiley felt as an accusation against 
himself. 

“A friend of mine, Bertha,” he said, ” to whom I 
owe my life.” 

Mrs. Houghton came forward and offered the tramp 
her hand. At first the tramp did not seem to know 
what to do with it, had perhaps expected to see a penny 
in it, at the most a shilling in it. Finally he took 
in the full extent of the offer and clumsily, sheepishly 
put his hand to the lady’s. 

“All Mr. Jack’s friends,” she said, “are indebted 
to you.” 

“ You’re making too much of my life, madam,” 
said Beiley. 

“ Did you get my letter. Jack?” said Bertha. 

“ Yes, thank you.” 

“ Then why didn’t you w^ite back?” 

“ Will you permit me, sir,” said Mrs. Houghton, 
“ to speak a few words with you?” 

Beiley bowed and went with her a few paces apart. 
Bertha looked on the tramp with curiosity. 

“Other Jack,” she said, “what does Jack mean by 
‘ owe my life ’ ?” 

“ ’E w^as in a burnin’ ’ole, missy, an’ ’e will ’ave 
it as I pulled ’im out; that’s all.” 

“ I’m one of Jack’s friends. Other Jack, so I’m debted 
to you.” 

She put out her dainty little hand; and the tramp, 
better instructed, did not look for a penny in it, but 
forthwith allowed it to grasp his own by two grimy 
fingers. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Houghton in that leafy privacy took 
Beiley so far as she might into her confidence. 

“Sir,” she said, “we have had a visit, more than 
one visit, from a friend of yours.” 

“ Have I any friends?” 


IN THE PARK 


259 


“You have. Oh, be assured you have! You are 
entitled to resent my interference as a piece of imper- 
tinence, but I can’t help making it. Why don’t you 
go back?’’ 

Beiley answered, but with difficulty, after a pause 
and much search for an escape from answering. 

“I can’t.’’ 

“Why not?’’ 

“ Because I don’t feel quite obliged.’’ 

“ O my lord — sir — forgive me, but happiness is so 
brief!’’ The tears that did not fall were more than 
the words. “You are wasting the precious moments. 
Of another’s happiness as well as your own. Dare 
you do that?’’ 

“ You’re greatly mistaken, madam, if you think that 
what I’ve done is the outcome of daring. It has been 
cowardice, nothing but cowardice, rank cowardice. 
And I’m a coward still.’’ 

“ Then my prayer shall be that courage may be 
granted you. It’s all you need. Believe me; all. 
But there’s another matter, trifling in comparison to you, 
though great to us ; that ring which you gave to Bertha.’’ 

“She gave me one too.’’ 

He showed the bead ring which still decorated his 
little finger. 

“ I thought I ought not to allow her to retain a 
gift of such value.’’ 

“You could not refuse, under the circumstances.’’ 

“That friend of yours was of the opinion that I 
ought not to refuse.’’ 

“You would shrink from compelling me to return 
Bertha’s.’’ 

“What shall you think of me? Yours has left my 
possession. That lady was very desirous of having it 
herself.’’ 

“Why?” 

“She thought it unnecessary to tell me; surely it 
should be unnecessary to tell you. The only difficulty 
in acceding to her request was one raised by herself.” 


26 o 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ What was that ?’* 

“ She insisted upon giving in return the full value 
of the ring to be settled upon Bertha. Such a sum 
as would ensure her an excellent education whatever 
happened to me. The temptation was great; for my 
little one’s sake I allowed myself to be persuaded that 
you would approve. Did I do right?” 

“You did quite right. As indeed you always must; 
both you and she.” 

“ Bertha !” They had come out again into the open ; 
and the moment that Mrs. Houghton looked back and 
called Bertha ran up to them. “ Should you like to 
go to Mansfield Grammar School for Girls when you’re 
old enough?” 

“Like Lucy Mayhew? Yes, mother.” 

“Then thank Mr. Jack.” 

Standing a-tiptoes the child put up her lips all on 
the pout to kiss and be kissed, red lips in a pale face. 

“ My thanks are only additional,” said Mrs. Hough- 
ton, “but ” 

The tears fell which before had refused to fall, tears 
that were companions to the smile upon the lips, tears 
that were co-partners with the deep-seated regret. 

“ Not another word, if you will be so kind,” said 
Beiley; “I’m ashamed already.” 

The tramp was just in sight, sitting on the protuber- 
ant root of an oak with his back to its bole, his gaze 
slackly aimed through the foliage at the bluest of the 
sky. 

“A lady has been to see us. Jack,” said Bertha, 
while her mother turned away and secretly wiped her 
eyes; “three times, several times. She knows you. 
When I told her I called you Jack she said I was to 
call her Sally. She gave me this dolly. But I forgot. 
My friend Jack; my dolly Miss Montague. Now you 
may kiss her. Kiss him, dolly love; it’s quite proper; 
he’s our great friend.” 

She held the dolly up and it was kissed. 

“ Now be quiet a little while, darling, whilst I talk 


IN THE PARK 


261 


to Jack. See the love ! She has shut her eyes, she 
can't hear a word. What a funny man that is! He 
likes warm water to wash in better than cold because 
there's alius less of it. We're friends because he owed 
your life; but I wish there was more hot water where 
he lives. Is he a friend of Sally's too?" 

" I think not," said Beiley. 

" I think not too. But then you never know. You 
may think and think and think a thing, and yet it 
wonH be true. Why? Is it because God thinks 
something else first?" 

" It must be so." 

"Yes, it must be so. And He's sure to be first, 
isn't He, because He gets up so early? He has to get 
up before the sun and the wind and the little birds. 
Look at the sweet ! She has opened her eyes again. 
She understands every word we say. Don't you, my 
precious? She loves to talk about God. She's going 
to marry a clergyman when she's grown up. That's 
why she doesn't smile so much as dolly Jacintha. She 
does smile, you know, but inside her mouth behind 
her darling teeth. Jacintha is growing out of her con- 
tistution, you'll be glad to hear. She and this prec- 
ious are the intimest of friends. Jack, Sally has been 
to Nesthorpe, and I've been there too. I asked her 
why she went, and she said she went for her health. 
And I said I went for my health. And then we laughed, 
both of us; it's so very funny to go anywhere for your 
health. Did you go to Nesthorpe for your health too, 
Jack?" 

"Yes." 

"How very funny! Why don’t you laugh? Isn’t 
it funny?" 

" Very funny." 

Mrs. Houghton covered his failure of a laugh by 
saying : 

" What else did you talk to the lady about, Bertha?" 

As though she knew that the question was what he 
was longing to ask and durst not. 


262 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ Oh, we talked about you, Jack, and then we talked 
about mother, and then we talked about you, and then 
we talked about my garden, and then — then we talked 
about you again. Do you know her?** 

“ What is she like?** 

‘‘Oh, she is nice; the nicest next to mother. And 
she has a shiny brooch, very like an S and not at all 
like an S, you know.** 

The irrepressible question was self-put by Beiley, 
with a quick alternation of yes and no. The yes was 
first, the no held the field. No, it was not the mono- 
grammatic brooch, his betrothal gift. 

“ And she wears her hair all on the top of her head. 
And she has a beautiful *’ 

The prattle ceased as though Bertha was weighing 
a doubt. 

“ A beautiful face?** suggested Beiley. 

“ Yes — no — I — A beautiful ** 

“Dress?** 

“ Ladies don*t bicycle in beautiful dresses, they 

bicycle in peropriate dresses. A beautiful ** 

“What?** 

“I don*t know where she was beautiful; I think 
she must have been beautiful all over. Do you know 
her?** 

“ I think I do.** 

Mrs. Houghton allowed her presence again to be 
remembered. 

“ Your room, sir, is still unoccupied,** she said. 

“ You*re too good. Yet I should like to sleep in it 
one night before I go away.** 

“ Why not to-night?** 

“ Would to-morrow be equally convenient?** 

“ Oh yes.** 

He had proposed the morrow, which was Saturday, 
in momentary hope of a Sunday with her and Bertha; 
but no sooner was his question uttered than he saw 
a hedge and a sword. 

“ I beg your pardon, I would say Monday.** 


IN THE PARK 263 

‘‘Certainly. We shall look forward to the pleasure 
of seeing you on that day.’* 

“ But you’ll write me an answer to my letter?” said 
Bertha. 

“ Yes.” 

“ A whole letter ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Not a picture post-card instead?” 

“ No.” 

“A picture post-card as well?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Did you damage that that I couldn’t spell?” 

“ I’m afraid I did.” 

“Can it be mended?” 

“ I’m afraid not.” 

“ Oh, you must let mother try; she’s wonderful with 
broken chimney ornaments and” — with a quick appre- 
hensive down-glance at her doll she dropped her voice 
to a whisper — “and dollies’ heads. Hush! Will you 
bring it with you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Good-bye, Other Jack.” 

“ Good-bye, missy.” 

Lady and little girl again shook hands with the tramp 
and went their way ; the lord and the loafer went theirs. 

“ ’Twouldn’t be ’ealthy for me to see that there little 
lady often,” said the tramp. 

“Why so?” 

“ If I did I dunno but what I might some’ow feel 
obliged to wash my ’ands odd times wivvout any need 
or necessity.” 

“ I don’t know that it would spoil you.” 

“ Oh, toff ! It ud knock off ’alf the diff’rence atween 
bein’ put away and discharged wiv a caution.” 

“ They make you wash at the workhouses too, don’t 
they?” 

“ So they does, toff. There they scores one agin hus. 
But it ud be rather rough on us, doncher think^ to 
expect us to play their game for ’em?” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


ORGANIZED CHARITY 

On his return Beiley called again at the post-office, 
but still there was no letter for a person of the name 
of Johnson; nor yet on the second day nor the third, 
which was Sunday. He and the tramp spent the inter- 
vening time in dodging the w’eather. Meanwhile P.C. 
Magson had his eye upon them, and w^as more occupied 
wdth unfavourable guesses at their business in Sop- 
worth than they suspected. Those w^ere days of altern- 
ating rain and fine. The weariness of time-killing had 
been knowm to Lord Beiley, but that was when the only 
thing that troubled him w^as the disease of too much 
ease. Now his cash in hand had again almost run out; 
his leg being still incompletely healed it was painful to 
him to be constantly afoot, and yet the uneasiness of 
his mind was such that he could not sit and rest. He 
w^as wise so far, instinctively. Apart from that supreme 
agony wdiich is incompatible wdth life, there is hardly 
a care but we can make it more oppressive by walling 
ourselves in with it. Let us go out with our grief, if 
we cannot leave it behind in the house. The joy of the 
earth is beyond all other things communicable. The 
touch of the air, the buffet of the storm, the general 
voice, which is pure song, have an insinuating way 
with them ; we shall hardly escape distraction, hardly 
indeed consolation, even while we are damning ourselves 
to despair. 

Beiley did not return to the park in which he had 
met Mrs. Houghton and Bertha, but there are haunts 
enough in the neighbourhood of Sopworth where a 

264 


ORGANIZED CHARITY 


265 


man may hide himself away in a green solitude. The 
tramp with his habitual indolent acceptance of the sur- 
roundings followed whither he was led, his complaints 
against the rain merely humorous and conversational. 
But there is no living thing, it would appear, so indol- 
ent that it can be absolutely vacant without ailing some- 
what in mind or body. On the Saturday he became 
almost pathetic about one house which they passed, a 
largish detached house, separated from the road by a 
screen of evergreens. 

“ Lemme go in there, toff,” he whined, “an* do a 
bit o* patter to the slavey. It*s a bone crib. I sh*d be 
as sure of a copper or two as if I ’ad ’em in my ’and 
and my ’and in my pocket.” 

“You may the day after to-morrow if we’ve no better 
luck.” 

They had just passed the town-hall and its clock. 

“ Four o’clock a Monday. It’s a fast un.” 

That same day Beiley left his comrade to take a mid- 
day sleep under a tree in the park which they most 
frequented, and walked on a mile or two. During which 
he chanced upon the old stone-breaker of whom he had 
once earned a shilling. Fie spoke to him, recalling the 
incident, but the old man, screwing up his eyes and 
pursing his mouth until his face was all wrinkles, re- 
fused to recognize in him his former journeyman. 

“No, no,” said he, “ ’twain’t do, ’twere non yo; ’e 
were a softer-languaged sort o’ man.” 

“ I gave you a sovereign change instead of a shilling.” 

“ Yo’re fause.^ Somebody moot a telled yer. But 
nayther yo nor him as gied me it can hae it back, for 
I’ve made it ower to the missis an’ she’s put it away. 
When she’s put a thing away, yer might as well try to 
raise the dead as get it again.” 

“ I don’t want it back.” 

“Then what do yer want? Employment? Nay, 
nay, I dussn’t; I shall niver hear the last from the 
missis o’ that tother shillin’.” He looked at Beiley 
^ Cunning. 


266 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


with a blear-eyed wistfulness. I don’t regret it though ; 
I think o’ them touches o’ the hat twenty times a day; 
I’d sooner be buried wi’out a haf e-crown each for the 
bearers and a bottle o’ port wine for the murners nor a 
missed ’em.” 

The old fellow turned away and began to chip at a 
stone with the mien of one resisting temptation. He 
ceased chipping, he turned again to Beiley with the 
relieved expression of one who has given in to tempta- 
tion. 

” Would yer do it again for the price of a hafe-pint?” 

” I’ll do it again for nothing,” said Beiley; and 
did it. 

The old man stood a minute as though tasting and 
testing, then shook his head in disappointment. 

” No, no,” said he, ” it hain’t the same flaviour. 1 
reckon money moot pass to mek it taste oat tasty.” 

He put his hand doubtfully into his breeches pocket. 
Beiley did not wait for the issue of the contention be- 
tween poverty and desire; he bade him good-day and 
walked on. 

On Monday afternoon Beiley might have been more 
successful at the post-office, but with the unhappiness 
that still attended him he inquired in the name of Jack- 
son. On receiving an answer in the negative he be- 
thought himself and substituted the name of Johnson. 
The post-master was a waspish little person with a 
pimply forehead and prying eyes. While he cashed a 
money-order for a young tradesman from across the 
way, he peered suspiciously at Beiley over the counter. 
He saw a shabbily dressed man wdth the mark of weather 
upon his outside and a general air of unprosperity; wffio 
had not even the addition wffiich a clean skin always 
gives to a man’s respectability, for his hands were soiled 
by contact with a mossy roadside elm-tree under which 
he had taken shelter during a shower, and on one cheek 
he bore unwittingly a splash of mud, the gift of a 
passing carriage. So it was with no show of respect 
that the post-master said ; 


ORGANIZED CHARITY 


267 


‘‘ Now which is it, Johnson or Jackson?’* 

The tradesman remained, a stout merry-faced person, 
a grocer in shirt-sleeves and white apron, and seemed 
to take much jocular interest in the dialogue, 

‘‘Johnson, if you please,” answered Beiley. 

‘‘Then why did you say Jackson?” 

‘‘ It was a slip.” 

The grocer laughed genially. The post-master ex- 
changed a halfpenny stamp for the equivalent coin with 
a servant-maid, and then continued : 

‘‘ Are you a resident at Sopworth?” 

‘‘ No, I’m only passing through; I’m staying at the 
Leopard.” 

‘‘ Good beds and a pretty barmaid,” said the grocer. 

‘‘ Have they booked you under the name of Jackson 
or Johnson ?” 

‘‘Neither.” 

‘‘What then?” 

‘‘Wilson.” 

‘‘ Another slip ?” 

The grocer laughed again. 

‘‘ I was within my right in giving them an assumed 
name.” 

The post-master turned away to register a letter for 
a gentleman. He seemed to have forgotten Beiley, but 
the grocer thought otherwise. He went to the door to 
make sure that he was not wanted in his own shop, 
then remained with a twinkle in his eye that was partly 
recollective, partly anticipatory. In about five minutes 
the post-master, being free, took up the dialogue where 
he had dropped it. 

‘‘May-be, may-be, but you aren’t within your right 
in giving the P.O. an assumed name; the P.O. doesn’t 
recognize assumed names.” 

Another stoppage while the post-master with waspish 
painstaking explained to a fussily so-sorry-to-trouble- 
you lady, how she might most cheaply change nine and 
elevenpence ha’penny for postal orders. Then he again 
took it up. 


268 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ What is your real name?” 

” I choose to be known by the name of Johnson.” 

” Except at the Leopard?” said the grocer merrily. 

” What is your permanent address — if you have one ?” 

” Or a few of them ?” said the grocer. 

” Stoke Clure, Hampshire.” 

“That’s one of them?” asked the post-master. 

“Yes.” 

And the grocer laughed more merrily than ever. The 
maid-servant had remained; an errand-boy who came 
for a packet of post-cards remained ; a clerk who stepped 
in to set his watch by the post-office time remained; 
the lady remained and was elaborately studying a notice 
about the mail for Hong Kong. 

“ Is there anybody in the town who knows you ?” 

“ No.” 

Even as he answered there wa^ a general direction of 
eyes, all but his own, towards the door, through which 
Jack the tramp wondering and wearying at the delay 
was peeping, a passing appearance but as unmistakably 
vagabondish as manifestly in waiting. 

“Come,” said the grocer, “isn’t that gent a friend 
of yours?” 

“Yes.” 

And there was a general laugh ; even the lady tittered 
over the notice about Hong Kong. 

Said Beiley, “ I undertake to name the sender of the 
letter and its contents. You may open it yourself, and 
if my description is incorrect, you’ve only to send for 
the police.” 

The post-master shook his head impatiently. 

“ I’ve no power to do that. Can you name the office 
where it was posted?” 

“ Probably either Stoke Clure or London.” 

“There’s always at least two of them,” said the 
grocer. 

Again the post-master shook his head. 

“Oh, there are three, are there?” said the jocular 
grocer. 


ORGANIZED CHARITY 269 

“ Tm not satisfied,” said the post-master with waspish 
emphasis. ” I shall refer to head-quarters.” 

” If I procure an authorization from my correspond- 
ent?” said Beiley. 

“You may, but anyhow I decline to do anything until 
Tve referred.” 

Beiley telegraphed to his agent and went out. He 
returned to the post-office in about two hours, when he 
had been told that he might reasonably expect a reply 
from Mr. Fasson ; but being undesirous of entering the 
post-office unnecessarily he stopped a person in the 
road and would have asked the hour. It was a black- 
coated well-dressed man with an air of gold-spectacled 
respectability and well-fed benevolence. At the same 
moment the town-hall clock hard by struck four, and the 
tramp was tempted by the stranger’s apparent softness. 

“ Would you be good enough ” 

“Couldn’t y’elp two pore chaps, sir, to a night’s 
lodgin’, genuine workin’-men out o’ work?” 

If events are to be divided into fatalities and non- 
fatalities, a division which seems to be demanded by 
the exigencies of fine writing, fatality it must be called 
that there should have been a policeman within beck. 
The gentleman’s finger went up, P.C. Magson came 
across, the charge was given. 

“I’m a subscriber to the Society for Organizing 
Charity, I can’t allow myself to be solicited in the 
street.” 

“ I didn’t solicit you,” said Beiley. 

“ You were the first to address me.” 

“ I was about to ask the time.” 

“That’s a likely tale,” said the policeman. “I’ve 
had suspicions of yer for a week or more.” 

“ It were me, guv’ nor,” said the tramp. “ My pal 
didn’t say nuffin. He’s a toff, a reg’lar hout-an ’-outer, 
and wouldn’t ” 

“ Hold your tongue. Jack,” said Beiley. 

“You admit,” said the gentleman, “that you are 
working together?” 


2^0 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ I only admit that I was in his company.” 

” I knew I should catch yer before long,” said the 
policeman. ” Do you charge ’em both, sir?” 

” Certainly.” 

The tramp turned on his accuser, most composedly 
indignant. 

” Where did yer prig that theer ’Oly Joe mug? But 
I reckon some’dy else done the priggin’ and you done 
the profit, like the sneakin’ old file that y’are. I’d shell 
out a bob for a front seat to see yer sentenced to two 
stretch ’ard for receivin’. A bloke like you’d ought to 
be made to swop faces wiv a snark or else to put a bill 
up in yer top-storey winder : ‘ Beware of this ’ere nigger. 
By border.’ I’ve done. Only mark this; what I’ve 
cheeked yer, I’ve cheeked on my own. P’raps yer’ll 
swear as he said it?” 

“You may rely upon it,” said the subscriber to the 
Society for Organizing Charity, “ that I shall only 
swear to the facts of the case.” 

“ Oh well then, remember you’ve promised not to 
swear as you’re a gentleman. I shall be a-watchin’ on 
yer. I’m dry, bobby; run us in. I’m as dry as yer 
was yerself afore the landlord of the Fox an’ Gun let 
3^er in at the back door.” 

Perhaps what most astounded Lord Beiley was that 
the thing was done so easily, nobody but himself ap- 
pearing to see anything extraordinary in it. While he 
felt as though there were a collapse of renim natura 
imminent, prosecutor and policeman, comrade and by- 
stander were evidently not going to let it interfere with 
the digestion of their last meal or their full enjoyment 
of the next. One boy did indeed follow^ them as far 
as the police-station, whistling “Hold the Fort,” but 
out of the mere vacancy of a boy upon an errand; he 
stopped twice by the way, to look into an apple shop and 
to exchange irrelevant insults with a youthful friend. 
That he, a Briton, could not be deprived of liberty with- 
out a sympathetic general disturbance, had been more 
than an article of faith with Viscount Beiley, it was the 


ORGANIZED CHARITY 


271 


basis of his security; and now an uplifted finger, two 
or three passionless words, a short walk down an uncon- 
cerned street, and lo ! he was behind a locked door, 
unfree to come or go, bereft of self-mastery, the slave 
of other men, quite vulgar men. He was shaken, be- 
wildered, confounded, broken ; he was reduced, de- 
spoiled, stripped. Every rag of superfluity gone, he 
had nothing left but what was common. At last he had 
come down to the general level. And by what headlong 
road had he made so speedy a descent ? By some 
stupendous crime ? By some far-fetched folly ? Or at 
least by some extraordinary laxity ? 

He sat down on the bare hard planl? that was his 
ordinary seat, his lounge, his bed, his chair of state 
in one, and thought it out. Not in that orderly 
sequence which leads from data to conclusion by a made 
road, quiet, direct, secure; nay, but like a man in a 
wood without direction, like a ship in a storm without 
a rudder, like a dog in the night, if you will, without 
a master. So his reasonings jumbled cause and effect, 
made therefore precedent to because, crowned perhaps 
with a verily, turned and returned in a blind gyration. 
Yet even in such a state of confusion he could not piece 
his egoisms together into any flimsy appearance of 
excuse; there was nothing even to make a bad boast 
of ; the bravest of his misdoing was merely weak and 
pitiable, hardly short of laughable. Look as he might — 
and he looked intensely though by such transient 
gleams, in such inconsequent directions — pick and 
choose as he might, he could not find anything in his 
conduct but what was common ; common in the im- 
pulse, common in the deed, common too in the success. 


CHAPTER XXX 

A DEAR half-crown’s WORTH 

Jack the tramp and Jack the lord were taken before 
the magistrates next morning. The chairman was a 
nobleman who had a seat in the neighbourhood and was 
very well known to Lord Beiley. But we rarely see 
what we are not looking for; and the last thing Lord 
Selstone was looking for was an acquaintance of his 
in either of those vagrants who hung their heads before 
him in the dock. It must be noted too that the peer’s 
figure was concealed by an ill-fitting coat ; that his face 
was tanned by exposure, masked by an untrimmed 
beard and hair, disguised by the self-torment of his 
thoughts and the reflected humiliation of his position. 
The case of Jack the tramp, a person well known to 
the police, did not hang. The bench sentenced him 
to six weeks’ hard labour without deliberation, and he 
received it without surprise. 

“ Though I shall be sorry to lose three weeks of the 
huntin’ season, my lord,” he said. 

His lordship was a keen sportsman ; he felt the force 
of the plea. A smile spread from him along the bench 
on either hand, and in a jocular commiseration which 
was mere self-indulgence the time was reduced by a 
fortnight. In gratitude quoth Jack : 

” I ’ope y’ull apply the twopence three farthings fun’ 
upon my pusson to pay for yer ’untin’ ball.” 

” And you, my man, what is your occupation ?” asked 
his lordship of his lordship. 

Beiley felt as though he were hung up between earth 
272 


A DEAR HALF-CROWN’S WORTH 273 

and heaven; as though nothing remained to be con- 
cealed. 

“ I don’t know,” he answered. 

If he had had his wits about him he might have 
answered : A self-indulgence that was too vapid a thing 
to be called amusement, a languor that was too weari- 
some to be called ease, a doubt that was too futile to be 
called scepticism, a dissatisfaction that was too inert 
to be called revolt. 

” Do you mean,” asked the chairman, “that you 
have never earned any money at any trade whatever?” 

Beiley’s recollections went backward through the 
slothful record, item by item, with an unhasting finger 
that passed nothing by. He had no thought to hide 
anything; he felt hung up. If he had been again asked 
his name he would have answered truly. 

“ As a musician,” he said at last hoarsely, remem- 
bering Nesthorpe. 

“Ah? It would hardly be vocal. What instru- 
ment?” 

“ The bones and banjo.” 

There was the general laugh. 

“ Anything else ?” 

Backward again travelled the finger of his memory, 
line by line, futile item after futile item, checking every- 
thing. 

“Yes, at stone-breaking.” 

Again the laugh, louder, more general. He remem- 
bered, as a far-off thing, that he too had sat on high 
apart and allowed himself to be languidly amused by 
the follies of poor un-Etoned unancestored wretches. 

“ Look at his hands,” said the chairman. 

Lord Beiley’s nearer hand was just lifted and dropped 
by the policeman who stood over him and said : 

“They’re not the hands of a working-man, your 
lordship.” 

A word went from the chairman under-breath and a 
slight glance to right and left meeting glance. 

“The police know nothing against you/’ said he, 


274 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ so we are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. 
Will you leave the town at once if you’re let go?” 

” Yes,” said Beiley. 

” I should advise you to take to the bones again ; they 
mayn’t be so lucrative but they’ll be safer,” 

“Congratulate yer, toff,” said the tramp. “That 
shows the advantage of ’avin’ no character. Ta-ta, my 
lord.” 

“ Stop !” said the chairman. “ Do you know a man 
named Half White?” 

“ Yes,” answered Beiley, 

“ I thought so. He played the bones too.” 

Alf White indeed, commonly known as Half White, 
had been Bones in the Negro minstrel troupe of which 
Beiley had once been a member. He perceived that he 
had been suddenly recognized. He passed out. Through 
the town street, the hedge-guarded road, the open wood- 
lands, he walked without the whip of a purpose; he 
had fallen completely at last into the pace of the loafer, 
of him who neither goes from anything nor towards 
anything. His mind was a common street to the 
passage of random recollections ; his ears were but 
thoroughfares to sound; his eyes mere windows, to 
which the scarecrow in the standing wheat had the same 
value as the man stowking the cut oats. And so the 
day passed, night fell, and he did not appreciate the 
difference between whole sun and three-quarter moon. 
He had not rested, had not eaten, had felt neither the 
desire nor the need of food. The stealthy uneasy clouds 
that lurked about the moon were ever taking and giving 
back. Now she shone fully out, either sole or in com- 
pany with one bright planet; now she would be merely 
veiled, now lost or nearly lost for a minute behind their 
encroachments. The rest of the sky was covered by the 
almost uniform wanness of cloud or mist, save that 
between moon and southern horizon there was always 
the brooding of something darker, more threatening. 

Without the conscious check of his volition his foot 
was stayed in its one-mile-an-hour shuffle. Immediately 


A DEAR HALF-CROWN’S WORTH 275 

he was aware of a voice, a child’s voice, that he knew, 
singing : 


“ The sun still shines although we cannot see, 

Still birdies sing and little children play ; 

I do not fear if in the dark I be, 

For God remains and it is always day.” 

He stood, though his impulse was to fly. He recog- 
nized the front of Mrs. Houghton’s cottage; heard the 
murmur of her voice through the open window; also 
heard another woman’s voice, younger, fresher, more 
forcible; which also he knew. From time to time he 
saw shadows on the blind, a little one’s and two 
women’s, one slenderer than the other. He felt utterly 
outside. A woman whose figure tallied with the younger 
voice came to the door and looked forth. He cowered 
in the shade until she went in again ; then he w’alked 
away. He had felt despair before, but in parcels; now 
he possessed it in the gross, the complete round of it, 
incapable of addition. 

He was nerve-shaken too; all his courage seemed 
to have been carried off by the woman whom he had 
seen at the door. Twice he thought he heard a voice 
behind him and fled out of the direct way to avoid 
imaginary pursuit. The second time he went aside into 
a mere rutty track, so thickly overhung by trees that but 
a glimmer of moonshine got through. The screech of 
an owl questing along the w^oodside w^as indistinguish- 
able from the voice of his own despair. 

Not far and the trees ceased to press upon his path; 
save single ones which close by were clearly visible, 
every leaf of them, but a few paces off appeared in 
quick gradation like a low cloud suspended in the air, 
like a breaking cloud without outline, like a cloud which 
as you look fades away in rain. 

Soon he saw a hovel in a field by the lane side; a 
forlorn erection overhung by a gaunt elm. Such as it 
was it put him in mind of rest; being minded of rest he 
became aware of his utter weariness, became weighed 


276 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


down by it, overcome by it. He resolved to go in and 
pass the night there; perhaps there would be a bunch 
of hay or mouldy straw for pillow to his heavy head. 
He did not act at once on his resolution ; he was in 
such a state that immediate action on any impulse less 
urgent than terror was impossible; he stood and looked. 
The moon, now westering and more and more encroached 
on by the clouds, was a mere wraith and of a ghastly 
green. Through the broken walls the phantoms of its 
shine came and went. 

'‘Ay, another man hanged hissen in theer.’’ 

Close by him stood a man whom he had not seen 
before; a roughly dressed countryman with a halter 
in his hand. Beiley, startled by the sudden appearance, 
said : 

“ Where did you come from?’^ 

The man laughed. His face seemed to be haggard 
and his eyes wild. Mayhap he had been drinking; but 
then he, like everything else, was subject to the wan 
weird transformations of the moon. 

“For love. TWnk o’ thatl” He laughed again. 
“The tomfool I As if there warn’t plenty of things 
he could have hanged hissen for sensibly. Ell show 
yer how ’e did it if yer like. There’s noat like knowing.’’ 

The man went through the gate into the field. Beiley 
followed; his very horror seemed to draw him on. 
Their coming disturbed a peewit, which rose and circled 
above their heads uttering his loud wail, a flitting appari- 
tion, so near that they could hear the hum of his wings. 

There was no door to the shed. The broken moon- 
shine that came thievishly through the rents in thatch 
and wall was only enough to divide a single darkness 
into a heap of quivering, shuddering wraiths. The man 
went in ; Beiley followed, though his skin was all a-prick. 
The man struck a match and raising it showed him the 
beam to which the fatal rope had been fastened. 

“ Just a such un as this helter,’’ said he. 

The light went out before Beiley was sure whether 
or not there was a shred of rope still hanging. The 


A DEAR HALF-CROWN’S WORTH 277 

man struck another match and holding it low showed him 
marks upon the earthen floor, a cross-work of scratches. 

“Jack Caunt’s toes made ’em,” he said, “ in his last 
merry dance. He gave hissen a inch too much rope — ’e 
were alius a bit that-a^-way — and so couldn’t make a 
clean swing on’t.” He laughed. “Shouldn’t yer like 
to have seed it? It moot have been a funnier sight nor 
any theaytre.” They were in the dark again but for 
the treacherous glimmer of the moon. “ Do yer think 
yer could see to tie this to yon balk without a light?” 

Beiley did not answer; unless may be his thoughts 
answered. 

“ There’s not many would care to trust theirsens inside 
’ere with me by night. How d’yer know as I ain’t the 
ghost of Jack Caunt hissen?” 

“ I don’t believe in ghosts.” 

“ M’appen not, but yet yo’re afeared on ’em.” 

He laughed again. His laugh was a horror; so 
fearful a mixture it was of mirth, malice and insanity. 
Beiley was glad to be again in the open. The moon 
had for the moment broken through and its slant beams 
extended their two shadows hideously, side by side, 
upon the darksome ground, and markedly drew out the 
halter in the man’s hand with a dreadful elongation. 

“ Well, I moot trudge. Are yer coming my road or 
are yer stopping for the night?” 

“ Neither; I’m going on.” 

“Yer can’t. The road goes no furder. Just as if 
’twere made a purpose for Jack Caunt to come and 
hang hissen.” The man again laughed his fearful 
laugh. “Jack Caunt and two or three others. Who 
knows? Who knows?” 

They walked side by side; and it happened that the 
stranger so carried the halter that it was always next 
Beiley, to whom it whispered devilish suggestions. The 
moon now belonged entirely to the clouds; the way 
was crowded with shadows. They gained the hard road. 
There was no talk, not a word, except the secret com- 
munion of thought with thought; until after an un- 


278 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


measured while Beiley was brought to a stand by the 
fellow's words : 

“ I moot now say good-night." 

There was no appearance at that point of any road, 
lane or path turning off from the direct way, nor was 
there any habitation within view. Beiley put his hand 
to the halter. 

“ ril give you half-a-crown for it," he said. 

" What for?" said the man. " Do yer want to hang 
yoursen ?" 

And he laughed loud. Beiley made no answer; but 
he did not release his hold of the halter. 

"All right; yer shall hae it; I’ll never balk a man 
of his pleasure. Here, tae it. But upon condition as 
I hae it again when yo’ve done wee’t. That’s con- 
veniencing both and hurting nayther. It’s a strong un 
an’ a long un, like Daddy Goode’s boot-laces; yer 
needn’t have no fear on’t. It’s none o’ them undepend- 
able beggars as promises a broken neck and gies yer 
nubbut a broken shin." 

The halter and the half-crown, Beiley’s last piece of 
silver. Lady Sally’s gift, changed hands. 

" I’ll come round for it i’ th’ morning. Y’ull be 
done wee’t by then?" 

"Yes." 

" Good. I know the place. It’s good stuff, remem* 
ber; yer may trust yoursen to it without fear o’ the 
consequences." 

Beiley looked back upon the dark silent road, as 
though he were looking back upon the course, desolate, 
dispeopled, of an extinguished life. When he turned 
again the man was gone from his side. As for himself 
he no longer weighed and balanced ; the material touch 
of the rope had transformed a suggestion, an impulse, 
into a resolution. He went back at a slow even pace. 
The end being so sure there was as little room for haste 
as for delay. When he came to a hard part of the road 
he heard the echo of his own footsteps behind him, and 
it seemed to him that the man was coming after him to 


A DEAR HALF-CROWN’S WORTH 279 

claim the reversion of the rope. At only one place he 
made a brief stoppage, and that was just before he en- 
tered the lane that led to the hovel, that led to the end. 

He was taking his leave of life. He had come to 
the end of everything; there w-as no looking forward 
for want of an object, no looking back on a dis- 
carded past. He had ceased to expect from others; he 
had no dependence upon himself. The last thought 
that passed through his mind was in the form of a 
message. He would not have written it down even if 
writing materials had been within reach ; would sooner 
have burnt his writing-hand to a stump than have written 
it; still he felt a momentary softening, felt the same 
shame, felt the same despair, as if it had been uttered 
into an ear or put visibly before an eye. 

Then he turned into the lane. Forthwith his thoughts 
were a quarter of a mile in advance of his feet; and 
his eyes were with his thoughts. He passed under 
the trees, and the glimmer of star-light wdiich had hither- 
to attended him was cut off. He stumbled into a rut 
and the jolt awoke him to his surroundings. His first 
bewildered thought was that he had done it and w^as 
already shut off in the outer darkness. But he had the 
halter yet in his hand. He looked up and the sky did 
not differ from the blackness about his feet. There 
was nothing to distinguish backwards from forw^ards. 
The very road had failed him. That halter ready noosed 
seemed to be the only assurance of things material. He 
felt as if a river flowed on either hand of him, black 
and bottomless; as if one step and he w^ould plunge 
into it. He was appalled by it, he who had not shrunk 
from the deliberate torture of the rope. The buzz of 
the leaves overhead, even the tumult of his own thoughts 
took the guise of voices, voices like the flow of a flood, 
yet voices that shouted “ Ho !” that cried, ‘‘ What hath 
it profited?” that whispered, “You can’t be saved 
unless you believe in something.” The halter fell from 
his hands. He went down upon his knees that he 
might feel the solid ground under him. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE AWAKENING 

Morning dawned. He was lying along the ground, 
having fallen asleep through utter weariness of mind and 
body. It had been day two or three hours when he 
awoke, cold, stiff, perplexed. His first thought, that it 
was his wedding morning, was crossed by unshaped 
apprehensions. He started up and felt for his watch. 
There w^as no watch in his watch-pocket. How did he 
come to be sleeping out? 

He was in that part of the lane which was most 
thickly roofed and walled in by interlacing boughs, so 
that daylight entered robbed of its common ostentat- 
ions. He went forward in a new-awakened haste; but 
not far. He came to a twist in the way; the woods fell 
back; he saw the hovel in the clearing, he remembered; 
the public ignominy, the despair, the half-crown’s worth 
of rope, the night on his knees. He turned back. 

As he passed the place where he had spent the night 
he expected to see the halter on the ground, even looked 
for it, with something of horror. But it was not there. 
He understood that he was to live. He walked on out 
of the shady lane into the sunny road. He felt some 
degree of recovery from his hopelessness, felt the assur- 
ance of strength to endure life if not to enjoy it, to bear 
if not to do. The day was such a one as has both a 
threat and a promise in it. There were clouds, high 
and white and still, among which, through which, 
behind which the sun shone or glimmered or was hid; 
and between which were peeps of blue of every tint, 

280 


THE AWAKENING 281 

from the almost green, almost grey of the horizon to the 
altogether azure of the zenith. 

After a while he crossed the verge of the woodlands 
and came to a village; one evidently much frequented 
by picnickers, sight-seers and trippers; by those who 
leave home in order to eat and drink or in order to see 
or in order to leave home. He bought a loaf there 
with his last penny, and then hastened away from the 
folk-encumbered neighbourhood of the houses and rail- 
way. He could hardly wait for that however before he 
attacked the bread with his fingers and teeth. It was 
more than twenty-four hours since he had eaten, and 
that a meagre dole of prison bread. 

Then followed a day and a half of wandering with 
nothing to sustain his endurance but the remnant of 
that loaf and a turnip which he picked up on the road. 
Often and often he condemned, with a physical con- 
demnation that for the time being overpowered the 
moral, the squandering of that half-crown upon mere 
rope. With that in his pocket he might have walked 
with a purpose in his mind, a destination in view. So 
he learnt that despair, when it is not the last defence, 
is the last offence. But he made or completed many 
other discoveries during those two days ; he learnt from 
within what it is to be an outcast, to have no objective, 
to look on the ground, to sleep without a roof, to be 
hungry. Which hunger is the sum of all evils, an 
intolerable condition against which nature revolts. All 
our preaching and policing are nothing if they do not 
recognize that. 

Unconsciously though it may have been, his wander- 
ings ever had a southward direction. About noon of 
the second day he was passing through a large colliery 
village. He stopped at a cottage, one of a long row, to 
ask a man who sat in his shirt-sleeves by the door for 
a draught of water. 

“Why, dal me, if it ain’t t’ counter-joomper !” ex- 
claimed the man. “ Dal me, if I should a knowed thee 
if ’tworn’t for that cockney cock to thy gab I” 


282 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


Beiley recognized him as Harry, the young miner 
with whom he had made the trip to Welham. 

‘‘Speak, mon, an’ gie’s a bit more o’ th’ cockney. 
I’m a married mon, counter-joomper ! What dosta 
think to that? Missis! That’s how ’tis I’ve flitted 
from Watford. Missis I here!” 

A young woman came to the door, tall and fresh and 
smiling. 

‘‘ This is my oad woman. What dosta think to ’er? 
Mrs. Spargoe, that’s her neame while she changes it for 
a better. It’s t’ counter-joomper, Bina ! the mon I’ve 
to’d thee about, as way chucked out at Welham. What 
dosta think to that?” 

She shook hands with Lord Beiley and said : 

‘‘ Hope you’re well. Glad to see yer.” 

‘‘But coom in, mon, coom in,” said Harry; ‘‘let’s 
see how thou looks sittin’.” 

He took Beiley by the hand and drew him indoors, 
partly by persuasion, partly by force. Beiley found 
himself in a little brick-floored living-room, clean and 
newly furnished. The table was ready spread for a 
meal with white tablecloth and shiny knives and forks. 

‘‘ Way hanna bin married nubbut two month. Hey, 
mon, it’s a grand loife ! It’s fun ! it’s foine ! What’s 
thy ’pinion o’ the dresser ? It didna coom whome 
till last Sat’day. We lay it to lick the hull row into 
fits.” 

‘‘ ’Arry, ’Arry !” said Mrs. Spargoe. ‘‘ Don’t beller 
it so as ’Endersons can hear. There’s been unpleasant- 
ness a’ready about the best bedstead.” 

‘‘There’s sartin to be unpleasantness if a mon ’ll 
nayther faight nor be satisfeed.” 

‘‘ I’m glad he won’t fight.” 

‘‘ An’ his own woman screets at ’im, ‘ Square thy two 
fisses an’ blacken ’is tw’o boz oys for ’im, the mongrel !’ 
It fair bates me as there should be sich a diff’rence o’ 
’pinion about sich a simple thing as faightin’ or not 
faightin’. But how’s taters cookin’? Thou mun hae 
a bite o’ dinner wee’s, counter-joomper.” 


THE AWAKENING 283 

Beiley was for excusing himself and hurriedly with- 
drawing, 

“Nay,’* said the wife with simple heartiness, “I 
shan’t let yer off; so that’s all about it.” She drew 
the best chair in the room to the table. “ Come, sit and 
make yourself at ’ome.” 

He acknowledged the compulsion of her homely 
undemonstrative womanliness. 

“Ay,” said Harry, “sit i’ th’ missis’s cheer; troy 
the cushions on’t. Comfortable, ain’t it? But, mon, 
listen to may. Dosta plee football as well as thou plees 
cricket ?” 

That was said so seriously as to imply that only then 
had young Harry the miner reached a topic which 
touched the fundamentally important. It was fitting 
therefore that Beiley, who had hitherto barely spoken a 
word, should open himself. 

“ I used to play a little,” he said. 

“ One of our forrards is took badly wi’ mezzles an’ 
way canna fill his pleace satisfactory. Mezzles, mon ! 
The very wake o’ the fust match o’ t’ saison ! Didsta 
iver hear o’ sich mismanagement ? Mezzles I Tha 
wouldna catch Harry Spargoe, full back, haein’ mezzles 
at sich a fool of a time. Dosta plee forrard?” 

‘‘ I did, but—” 

“ Ay, thou’s joost the mek of a forrard; not mooch, 
but middlin’ good. Missis ! way’ve fun a plee-er i’ 
Fosh Jarge’s pleace ! Mon, I loove thee as if thou were 
my own brother. Way canna pee thee wage, becos it’s 
agen the rules, but way can pee thee expenses as mooch 
as thou loikes. It’s Soccer thou plees of coorse?” 

“No, Rugby; but I ” 

“Well, thou mun do thy best; thou mun bust thy- 
sen, thou mun — Na, na,” Harry turned to his wife for 
sympathy — “it wunna fit, Bina; no more nor thy 
foldidols on my broad back. The most yo can git out 
o’ one o’ them Rugby varmin is this; hay’ll be so 
careful not to use his bonds hay’ll forgit to use his 
legs.” 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


284 

“Yer must ask Bert Foster/' said Mrs. Spargoe. 
“ Dinner's ready." 

" I shall black-guard 'im afore hafe-toime." 

" But yer mustn't be so 'ot-'eaded. I alius tell yer." 

" Hot, wench? I'm no hotter nor a football plee-er 
should be. It's him as’ll be so co'd; it's that as '11 be 
the beginnin’ on't. But t' mate an' taters is hot any- 
how. Draw up to table, counter-joomper. Dosta loike 
it fat or lane, or lane and fat? Gie'm plenty o' taters, 
Bina. Ax a blessin', so's hay can begin." 

So Lord Beiley, made heartily welcome, ate and rested 
in the miner's cottage. Towards the end of the meal 
Harry burst out with : 

"I'd ommost forgot. What dosta think, counter- 
joomper? They said thou was a lord, an' a scabby 
un at that. Sich gas ! I says, says I, ‘ Lads, if the 
mon were a lord hay wouldna ha' run down his own 
koind as hay did. I've lived i' th' worruld, lads. No, 
hay'd a cracked up their kitchen cobbles for best broight. 
Besoides,' says I, ‘the mon's a good mon,' I says; 
‘ hay plees wi' a straight bat.' No, I know a good mon 
when I see one; I’ve bin a good mon mysen iver sin 
twenty-second o’ July. I goo to chapel as often as t’ 
missis taes^ me, an' I stop prayer-meetin' as often as 
she mays^ me. I holler amen at finish but niver ang- 
core. Lord love thee, th' oad women as is theer ! I 
think they mun mek oad women at prayer-meetin’, out'n 
oad men." 

" 'Arry, 'Arry, yer shouldn’t talk like that !" 

" I'm non talkin’, missis; I'm listenin’ to thee. Lord 
Bilbie, that were his neem. Bina, the woman canna 
a bin a good woman or shay wouldna a letten him goo. 
Thou wouldna a letten me, wouldst tha?" 

" Not likely. If thou doesn’t know what's good for 
thee I do. Besides the tea-cups was bought." 

"Thou seest!" said Harry, turning to his guest. 
" But thou hasna done atin'; thou mun hae a plateful 
or two more yit." 

1 Takes, 


^ Makes. 


THE AWAKENING 


285 


But their guest had done eating with a sudden failure 
of appetite, whatever Harry and his wife might say. 
Soon he thanked his friends for their hospitality and 
took his leave. Harry walked with him to the turn 
nominally to show him an unimportant short-cut, really 
in order to open the more freely his expansive young 
heart. 

What dosta think to ’er, counter-joomper ? Canna 
she cook?^* 

“ Capitally,” said Beiley. 

” Doesna shay seem to make the house shoine loike ?” 

“ She does indeed.” 

” Ain’t oi the luckiest chap i’ th’ pleace?” 

” I think you are; I congratulate you; I hope you’ll 
continue to be such. You will if you suffer your head- 
strong disposition to be restrained by her good sense.” 

”Restreened? Mon, listen to may. The dee after 
to-morrer’s the fust match o’ t’ saison, an’ oi’m a-gooin’ 
to ax Foster’s Bert to plee left wing joost becos his sister 
Greece goos to t’ same boible class as hersen. What 
more dosta want ? Look ! Thou mun foller this path 
by t’ soide o’ t’ tram-wee. Thou canna mistek it. Good- 
bye. Here, stop!” The Derbyshire lad’s loud volub- 
ility had suddenly put on a shamefaced stammer. 

“Oi’m afreed — that is Bina thinks Here I dal 

speechifyin’ ! catch ho’d.” He had silver in his hand 
which he awkwardly tried to transfer to Lord Beiley’s. 
“ Trade’s better. Way can spare it. Thou’rt welcome. 
The dresser’s peed for.” 

“Thank you, it is quite unnecessary; I have all I 
need.” 

“ For sartain ? I tho’t — Bina said Thou wunna? 

Well, shak bonds, counter-joomper. Good-bye. Be 
sure an’ gie’s a look-in when thou’rt this wee agen.” 

The sun was getting low when Beiley lay down worn 
out under a young oak on a wayside bank in a quiet 
leafy lane. If he had opened his eyes he could have 
seen about a mile off in the same quarter as the sun a 
colliery chimney spouting smoke. But if he opened his 


286 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


eyes it was only intermittently, momentarily, inatten- 
tively, for he was between wakefulness and lethargy, 
and nearer to the latter. In such a state the ears are 
more alert than the eyes by far, and it was by his ears 
that he was first aware of some sort of woman who came 
up at a jog-trot, neither walk nor run ; a poor forlorn 
creature with a drooping head that was never still, large 
vacant eyes that were never fixed, gaping mouth that 
was always a-twitch, lean clawed hands ever at work. 
He saw too, yet hardly saw, that she was dressed in 
a soiled print hood and a ragged black gown that trailed 
the dust, and she carried on her arm an old manilla 
bag. She stopped opposite to him to pick a blackberry 
or two from the hedge, but before she had dropped them 
into her bag the lids closed again over his negligent 
eyes, and he straightway forgot her. 

Again it was his ears that did sentry-go for his eyes. 
When next they opened it was twilight. He heard 
again the uncouth cry that had roused him ; again and 
again, near at hand, sounds between the human and 
the bestial, inarticulate but expressive, of anger and 
especially of fear. They brought him to his feet sooner 
perhaps than an appeal in King’s English would have 
done. He ran, and as soon as he had mounted a blob 
made in the road by a canal bridge saw what was agate. 
The poor creature who had last gone by was surrounded 
by three lusty vagabonds. One had snatched her bag 
from her and was looking into it; another was ransack- 
ing her pocket; the third, a big burly rascal, was 
threatening her with tongue and fist. Her hood had 
been pulled down on her neck, which disclosed her poor 
head, all bald but for a pitiful grey fringe at the nape. 

“See this ’ere? I’ll dab it in yer ugly mug if yer 
don’t shut up.” 

“ Noat but bloomin’ blackberries,” said the first. 

“Where do you keep yer money?” said the second, 
and tried to force open one of her hands which she kept 
clenched. 

“ A crazy Liza like yersen,” said the third, “ might 


THE AWAKENING 


287 

do wuss nor come along wi’ three chaps like uz. We’d 
put yer up to all the fetches and y’ud mek a livin’ where 
we clam ; y’ud live like a lady.” 

Still she screeched and withheld her hand and tried 
to recover her bag. 

” Tek that then,” said the third, “if yer wain’t be 
said,” and smote her over the mouth. 

Whereupon Lord Beiley came up. 

“You beast!” he said to the third. “Take your 
hands off,” he said to the second. “ Give her back the 
bag,” he said to the first. 

He spoke not above the ordinary pitch and with per- 
fect balance. It was long since he had felt such self- 
mastery. The quiet and the twilight seemed to side 
with him, making the sound more considerable, the 
self-assurance more assured. The two nearer ruffians 
drew back, the other returned the bag and essayed an 
apology. 

“’Twere on’y a bit of a lark we was ’avin’ with the 
oad geyser, master.” 

“ Your notion of a lark is brutal.” 

He turned to the woman. 

“ Which way are you going?” 

She seemed to understand though nothing came from 
her mouth but voluble gibberish. She returned up the 
lane, Beiley walking by her side. He looked incon- 
siderable seen from the back, and the courage of the 
biggest ruffian came again. 

“ What flats we are to be gammoned by a little bloke 
like ’im!” he said. “I could lay ’im out with one 
’and.” 

He and his comrades started in pursuit. 

“I wunnered,” said the smallest of them, “as yo 
stood ’is bloomin’ cheek, Belk.” 

“ I was leavin’ the little bit of offal to yersen. Wag.” 

Beiley perceived that they were being followed. 

“Can I trouble you to run on,” he said, “while I 
talk to these men? There’s something I’d forgotten.” 

The poor creature only gibbered in answer, but as 


288 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


though understanding the words or the accompanying 
gesture moved on and more quickly, while he waited. 
His lassitude had fallen from him; he felt as though he 
had but just eaten and drunk; he was braced up, almost 
exhilarated. The vagrants soon made up the short start 
which he had of them, and were evidently prepared for 
mischief. He was glad of it; the woman was already 
out of sight and presumably in safety. The smallest 
and lightest of the three came first; fired a charge of 
obscenity at short range, but seemed to lose courage as 
soon as he was within striking distance, and went down 
almost willingly to Beiley’s right-hander. The latter 
however had laid himself open to the big Belk, who 
was but just behind and got in one that loosened his 
teeth and filled his mouth with blood. His own lunge 
fell short and before he could recover, he received a 
second between his eyes that laid him flat on his back. 

“Kick him, Smut!“ cried Belk. “Kick his ribs 


in 


!“ 


The third villain came round and kicked. But the 
kick instead of settling him seemed to help him up; he 
was on his legs again in an instant, closed up Smut’s 
right eye with a straight one and then went for Belk’s 
body; but that long-armed fellow’s more effective 
counter again felled him. 

“ Kick his bloomin’ brains out !’’ said Belk. 

Smut however could not get near before Beiley was 
again on his legs and showing fight. 

Belk was puzzled, partly intimidated by his antag- 
onist’s pertinacity; gave ground a yard or two and let 
him get home twice, under his chin and over his cheek- 
bone, before he replied. 

“ Yo bain’t afeared on ’im, be yer?” said Wag from 
behind. 

“ No, but yo be, or y’ud get behint ’im an* gie *im 
what-for.’’ 

The next exchanges were rather in favour of the lighter 
man ; but Smut sneaking behind kicked him on the 
ham. Belk, seizing the moment of discomfiture, struck 


THE AWAKENING 


289 

him savagely over the mouth, knocked out a tooth that 
was loose and once more laid him all his length. Smut’s 
kick, meant for his head, only grazed his ear and bruised 
his shoulder. He was up again immediately. To Belk 
there was something devilish, especially at dusk, in a 
courage that was charmed against defeat ; and while he 
was hesitating to come on again the woman, who had 
returned unperceived, suddenly rushed upon them out 
of the gloom with a fierce wordless outcry. Wag and 
Smut took forthwith to their heels. Belk finding him- 
self left did not wait to be attacked, but turned and 
strode after them. In good time, for next moment 
Beiley’s legs gave way and he fell to the ground all of a 
heap. 

The woman followed dog-like at the heels of the three 
for some distance, yapping inarticulate anger and threat. 
Then like a she-animal who has chased danger from her 
young she ran back, bent over her deliverer, took his 
hand, made noises of distress, pity, tenderness. But 
finding that he did not rise or open his eyes or show 
any sign of life, she put her arms about him under the 
shoulders, and lifting the upper part of his body — she 
was stronger than she looked — while his legs dragged, 
drew him to one side of the lane. But she was not 
content with that; evidently from her looking down 
the road so anxiously she feared the return of her per- 
secutors; in three several violent efforts she hauled him 
to a gap in the fence, through it and down a steep bank 
to the canal side. Then after a brief rest, with a final 
panting struggle she pulled him under the bridge. There 
she tended him with an uninstructed kindness, stroked 
his hands and pale cheeks, made her harsh voice take 
the very coo of tenderness, went again and again to the 
bridge foot to spy if there were passers friendly or 
hostile. 

After a while at the rumble of a long mineral train 
passing close at hand he awoke out of his swoon into 
a confused reality and sat up. Whereat the woman 
clapped her hands and uttered a loud dissonant laugh. 

19 


290 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


The sound roused his memory; he remembered the 
beginnings of the fight, but did not understand how 
he came to be there in the dark. He sat in a strip of 
darkness, but on either hand of it was the glimmer of 
something. It took time for him to make out that it 
was moonlit water; which however did not leave his 
surprise the less. The woman after much unintelligible 
vociferation took his hand as in leave-taking, and went 
off up the lane at that quick pace of hers which was 
neither walk nor run. 

He rose, but not immediately, and walked unsteadily 
from under the bridge. There he took in the situation ; 
a short section of canal in a shallow cutting, over- 
shadowed on both sides by the trees of a plantation and 
closed in at the ends by an iron railway viaduct and 
the low-arched road bridge. But the dark glimmering 
water made him shudder; he felt for the moment as if 
he still had the rope in his hand, he suffered a return 
of the faintness. He went back to the shelter of the 
bridge and sat with his back against its wall. He had 
nothing to do but watch the slow approach of the 
moonlight to the place where he sat and listen to the 
frequent plop of the fish. 

After what seemed a long while the woman returned. 
As she knelt before him in the moonlight he could 
see that she held a bottle, which she put to his lips with 
a mumble, probably of invitation. He needed little of 
that; he drank eagerly and drained the bottle of its con- 
tents, milk, tea, coffee or village water; he did not seek 
to be assured which. She took the bottle back and held 
it up to the light, and when she saw it was empty she 
laughed her harsh guttural laugh. 

What a night that was that ensued ! There was 
neither sound sleep in it nor clear waking, but a jumble 
of the two without the restfulness either of rest or of 
certainty. All he could say was, it seemed to him and 
it did not seem to him. And the seeming and the not- 
seeming lasted the night through without a break; or 
else there was break and break innumerable with im- 


THE AWAKENING 


291 


mediate momentary rejoining of continuity. Nothing 
was ever unquestionably before him, and yet he never 
quite lapsed into unconsciousness. It seemed to him, 
yet hardly through his senses, that the woman was 
always there, was always crouching in the dark with 
her eyes round-open upon him, she seeing him, he not 
seeing her. It seemed to him that trains were ever 
passing along the adjacent railway, swift passenger 
trains and heavy goods, coming up with a tumultuous 
onset that seemed aimed at him, but just missing him 
steamed furiously by. It seemed to him that the moon 
was ever encroaching upon the shadow wherein he sat, 
until its shine touched his feet, his legs, the lower part 
of his body. But when it had risen as high as his waist, 
it seemed to him and not seemed that it began to decline 
until even his feet were again in the deep shade, and the 
shimmer of the black water was so faint that possibly 
his perception of it was mere memory of what had been. 
It seemed to him that he could uninterruptedly feel the 
chilly damp of the bridge wall to his back, and hear the 
fish at their watery gambols. And yet how could those 
seemings be without an equal quantity of not-seeming ? 
For all the while, apparently without intermission, he 
was a child at his play, he was a youth at his schooling, 
he was a man at his folly; all the while he was tossing 
on the sea, was hurrying over the land, was never any- 
where so long that he could be sure of it ; all the while 
he was doing, undoing, not doing; was present through- 
out at a certain wedding that had never taken place, and 
was at the same time shamefully absent from it ; was play- 
ing the mountebank on the sea-sands, the listless legis- 
lator at Westminster, the cadger on the Carrs, the 
unprofitable ‘‘employer of labour,*’ the idle and dis- 
orderly person at Sopworth, the common but uncharged 
idler at his club, the thriftless bargainer for a half-crown’s 
worth of rope. All the while he was seeing Lady Sally, 
all the while he had seen her and would never see her 
again. And thereto a sense of bodily discomfort was 
continually with him and not with him, from the 


292 A WALKING GENTLEMAN 

uneasiness of his position, from his bruised mouth, his 
throbbing head and aching limbs. 

That being so and not being so, how came it that 
not by degrees but all at once he was aware of a flood 
of daylight round and about, which made the shadow 
of the bridge a vain thing? The woman too was gone 
and he had not seen her go. He rose stiffly and limped 
from under the bridge. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE WEDDING MARCH 

The sun was in the act of rising. He came up like a 
conqueror, resplendent, immediately predominant. The 
heavens were his forthwith, his the hedged fields, both 
the green and the yellow, his the crowded woods and 
solitary hills. The only exception to the complete sur- 
render was in the timid hesitation of the thin mists that 
cowered in the hollows and diaphanously veiled the still 
water, and of this pale denial he made a glory for him- 
self. It would seem as if some of that penetrative sun- 
shine had got within Lord Beiley. He still felt sore 
and stiff, he had not a penny in his pocket, but he was 
no longer altogether downcast. He went up on the 
bridge. A collier was passing and he could exchange 
a frank and equal good-morning with him. His mind 
seemed cleared of some of the vile stuff that had clogged 
it; the cowardice, the indecision, the self-consciousness. 
What had hitherto been but a blind impulse became a 
purpose. He had a hunting-box in the Pytchley 
country, fifteen miles on the other side of Leicester, 
within a long day’s walk. He would go thither. The 
collier was already out of call or he would have asked 
him the way. 

He had stood but a very little while hesitating between 
his right hand and his left, when the woman whom he 
had rescued the night before appeared up the lane with 
her manilla bag still upon her arm. She expressed 
pleasure at seeing him by the only means at her dis- 
posal, the loud harsh laugh and the wooden gesture. 
She signed to him to sit in the sun ; but ajmost 

293 


294 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


immediately she seized his hand, apparently taken with a 
sudden fear of her assailants* reappearance, and was not 
satisfied until he had let himself be drawn down to 
their hiding-place under the bridge. She seated him 
as before upon the ground and she clapped her hands 
twice in token of content; then handed to him the con- 
tents of her bag, a bottle of skim milk and three or four 
thick slices of bread and dripping. 

‘‘ But you’ve left yourself none,” he said, and 
attempted to give part back. 

She refused volubly, almost angrily, and when he 
persisted withdrew round the bridge out of sight. Pre- 
sently she peered round the corner, and when she saw 
the food still untouched scolded him roundly in her 
gibberish. He answered by holding out a piece of the 
bread to her. She hid herself again, again peeped and 
again scolded, but perhaps less forcibly; even came 
a little nearer at his beck, a little and a little nearer; 
until he could lay the slice upon her hand. The touch 
of it broke the remains of her resistance. She did indeed 
sign to her guest to begin first, but after that she ate 
with an eagerness that spoke of an unblunted appetite. 

How delicious to the peer was that bread and dripping 
which he shared with the idiot woman, and especially 
how delicious that skim milk which they drank out of 
the bottle hobnob ! He threw crumbs to the fish, who 
snapped at them greedily and gave thanks with a switch 
of the tail. The woman fed them in imitation and 
laughed at the sport they made her. Except the eddies 
which their movements caused, the only sign of current 
in the quiet water was the slow drift of a tangle of some 
green weed. A furlong off on the side opposite to the 
railway viaduct a slight twist in the canal made the 
trees on each hand seem to meet over it in an arch, and 
there already stood a fisherman like a statue with his 
eyes upon his float. But the scanty meal was soon 
ended, and Beiley deemed it necessary to get quickly 
upon the road. He made such expressions of thanks 
and farewell as he thought she would understand, and 


THE WEDDING MARCH 


295 


went forth into the lane; but she followed him and 
made strong, even vehement opposition to his going the 
way that he had chosen. She frowned and .shook her 
head and held him by the sleeve with an outpouring of 
her customary jargon. In the end, since his choice 
was based upon nothing more definite than a general 
sense of direction under the sun’s guidance, he thought 
good to let her have her will. Probably she would 
lead him where he could make inquiries, and set out 
for Leicester without losing time by a false start. Her 
delight at the concession was unmistakable. 

Half a mile on the lane crossed a highway, down 
which she turned, and he beside her. Before them were 
the two tall chimneys of a colliery, and half hidden 
in foliage the scattered houses of a village, the slim 
spire of a church. Soon they came where the canal 
went under the road. Close by along its banks was 
the colliery. Some two score of the pit-hands with 
coal-blackened faces were loafing or larking about, 
youths, hobbledehoys, mature men, mostly with pipes in 
their mouths. As Beiley and the idiot woman passed 
they were greeted with the insult of a general laughter 
and with many a loud uncomplimentary remark from 
the younger bystanders. 

“Hello! here’s oad Tally! She’s gotten a sweet- 
’eart!” 

“ Where didsta pick that sod up. Tally?” 

“ I don’t think much to him. Tally. Yo’d a done a 
sight better if yo’d a took me.” 

“Or me!” 

“ Or me !” 

“ He’s stole a chap’s coat or yer wouldn’t a knowed 
’im for a man at all.” 

“ Yo want to hae a stun o’ taller gi’en in wee’m for 
mek- weight.” 

Some of their jokes and sarcasms were far from delic- 
ate, but their only effect was to cause the object of 
them to draw closer to Lord Beiley; which was duly 
commented on. 


296 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ How they do cotton to one another for sure I*’ 

“ I wish my gell ud squeedge up as close/’ 

‘‘ Lord, what a mug she’s gied ’im wi’ kissin’ on 
’im ! Strike me if she hain’t drored one of his teeth !” 

But they were not content with making the pair run 
the gauntlet of their incivilities; the younger half of the 
assemblage followed them down the road. 

‘‘ Yer mun get married soon, dears, or y’ull bust out 
afire.” 

” Yer fat’s all of a frizzle a’ready.” 

Just then the church bells sounded the prolonged 
chime of the hour. 

“Hark! them’s the chutch bells. I do b’lieve as 
they’re gooin’ to be married to-day, the fause beggars !” 

“That accounts for Tally haein’ ’er Sunday bonnet 
on.” 

“ An’ the man them two nobby black eyes.” 

“Why didna thou send an’ invite uz. Tally? 
’Twain’t jonnock.” 

“We’ll goo ’owsumdever. Form in percession, 
lads.” 

“ Me an’ Tushy ull goo fust as chief mourners.” 

“Wheer am I to be?” 

“ Yo can gie ’er away. ’Cos yo’ve noat else to gie.” 

Jostling one another, pressing upon the two, shout- 
ing, laughing, hooting, singing, they formed themselves 
into a rough procession behind; in which they were 
joined by all the children and what idle stragglers there 
were on the road. Some picked up old kettles and tin 
canisters from the hedge bottoms, and with sticks and 
stones made thereon music appropriate to the occasion. 
So they passed through the village. The women stood 
at their doors or came down to their garden gates. Said 
one to another with ready-made laughter : 

“ I never seed a better I” 

“ Tally an’ ’im meks a good pair.” 

“ See our George wee’s coat inside out 1” 

“ Taylor’s ’Arry’s gotten your Letty’s ’at on.” 

“ Don’t be so rough wee’t, ’Arry, yo young hound !” 


THE WEDDING MARCH 


297 

Charley letten *is jacket down to *is ^eels like a 
petticut.’' 

“ What a ran-tan to be sure !” 

“Glad it een’t my weddin’ mornin', Mrs. Towle. “ 

“ Who’s the bridegroom?” 

“ Oh, some travellin’ chap by’s looks.” 

“ It fair gies me the cramp i’ my sides wi* laughin’.” 

“ I’ve laughed while it aches back o’ my ears.” 

“ I know I heerd my stay-lace cry rip.” 

“ Shall’s foller ’em a bit an’ see the fun out?” 

“ I don’t mind if I do. Th’ouse mun look after 
itsen.” 

“ Is’t a real weddin’, think yer, or just a bit of a 
gam?” 

“ Blessed if I know.” 

“ It moot be for the bells are ringin’ for’t.” 

“I don’t ’ear no bells.” 

“ No, becos they’ve stopped.” 

“ If they hae the bells for sich as them, I wain’t hae 
’em for our Ann Alice.” 

“ I reckon Mester Welbourne will a paid for ’em 
hissen. ’E believes in treatin’ all on uz alike. We’re 
all on ’s children o’ one God, as don’t suffer no distinc- 
tion ’cept atween gentry an’ common folk.” 

“ He’s a kind sort, is Mester Welbourne.” 

“ With a bit o’ humourin’.” 

“ It’s his raight to be humoured.” 

“ But it’s not his raight to send to Nottingham for 
his meat.” 

“Of course, Mrs. Mundy, if I were a butcher or 
mother-in-law to a butcher it ud be diff’rent.” 

“ What are they stoppin’ for?” 

“ I can’t see.” 

It was this, that as they approached the church gates 
Beiley suddenly awoke to his whereabouts. That church 
before him was the church in which he would have been 
married, if his promise had been endorsed by perform- 
ance. That park wall on the other side of the road 
enclosed the ancestral domain of Lady Sally Sallis, may- 


298 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


be at that very moment enclosed her. His vision was 
so effectually cleared that it took in the smallest detail 
of known things, the prim police-station, the leafy 
avenue to the rectory, the quaint inn, the pump set in 
a little square. He remembered perfectly that apple- 
faced girl standing at a rose-wreathed door, as she stood 
when he rode through with Lady Sally. But the roses 
were withered. He stopped, disconcerted, confounded. 
The brilliant wedding assemblage might still have been 
in yonder building with their eyes upon the door, and 
he without, unwashed, unapparelled, unprepared. His 
mind was filled with the incongruities of a nightmare, 
even while the sun shone discouraging dream-figments 
and real flesh and blood in real boots was treading upon 
his heels. 

The mob, which had grudged his former at least 
well-assumed indifference to their mockery, was de- 
lighted with his sudden stoppage, his manifest disturb- 
ance. They pressed close around wdth renewed clamour 
and exaggerated expostulation. The greater part of 
them had already been persuaded by the cry of their 
own voices that there really was a wedding to the fore. 

“ Nay, nay, surry ! yo should a tho’t o' that afore yo 
corned to the chutch gates.*’ 

“Well, I’ve seed a many as wished theirsens the 
furder the nearer they got to the parson’s book, but I 
never seed one as looked so willin’ to let well alone.” 

“ Ho’d ’im to it. Tally.” 

“ Then she mun ho’d ’im by the scuft o’ th’ neck.” 

For Beiley had begun to draw back. The mob, hoot- 
ing and caterwauling, impeded his retreat if they did 
not actually oppose it. Tally seemed to be trying to 
urge him forwards, but her gestures were as dumb to 
him as the utterances of her mouth. 

“ Say the word. Tally ” 

“ Shay canna do that.” 

“ Tip uz the wink. Tally, an’ we’ll egg ’im into 
chutch with our knees.” 

“ Ay, lass, an’ ho’d ’im upsoide down an’ shake the 


THE WEDDING MARCH 


299 

‘ Oi will’s ’ out ’n ’im on to t’ floor if they wunna coom 
out o’ theirsens.” 

“ Here’s the parson, Tally! Yo moan’t mek a spill 
on’t so near the lip.” 

The clergyman had indeed come to the rectory gates, 
wondering what the hubbub meant. 

“ What’s ’e got ’is ’and up for? What’s ’e sayin’ ?” 

” Dalled if I know.” 

“Prayin’ for fine weather mebbe for the cricket 
match.” 

The momentary diversion of the crowd’s eyes and 
interest allowed Beiley to get through to the lane, whose 
enlarged mouth made that open space for the pump. 
Tally was still by him, gabbling expostulation, entreaty, 
almost it would appear threat ; but the finger that pointed 
was not towards the church but the park walls and the 
tall overhanging oaks. The mob’s attention quickly 
returned to him and her. They were angry that their 
playthings had so nearly escaped them, and the play 
but half over. They boohed and hooted and whistled; 
amid which two or three stones were thrown and one hit 
Beiley on the back. He turned to them. His white 
composed face gained him some sort of hearing. 

“ If you wish to throw at me,” he said, very distinctly 
without at all forcing his voice, “I’ll stand on one 
side. Then you won’t be afraid of hitting the lady.” 

He stood aside; but there was nobody to throw. The 
boldness of the offer shamed them, the high-bred style 
of it, so incongruous with such an exterior, astonished 
them. What with the shame and the astonishment 
there was silence. If a few of those behind pushed for- 
ward in order to see, some of those in front drew back 
to get out of sight; there was no more movement than 
that. It was plain there was to be no more either of 
violence, pursuit or insult. Beiley turned and walked 
away; Tally followed him, but ceased from her gewSticul- 
atory remonstrance, as though the unexpectedness of 
the issue preoccupied her brain. Very soon their vexers 
were out of sight, the last house was passed. They 


300 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


walked on until the lane changed to footpath, the foot- 
path to hard road. Unconsciously he had again given 
up the direction to his companion. 

They came to a spot in the road where she twitched 
his sleeve and enforced his attention. Following the 
pointing of her finger he saw at a distance the white 
conspicuous towers of Sheraton in their green setting. 
He looked long. When his eyes returned from their 
looking, he perceived that the woman’s gaze was fixed 
upon him with something in it nearer intelligence than 
he had remarked before. Could it be possible that she 
recognized him ? He shook his head, whether in answer 
to his own thoughts or that look of hers. He perceived 
that the sun was behind him, he turned back down the 
road. Tally made no outcry; the hand that pointed 
dropped disappointed to her side ; she let herself be led 
away. Only a few yards and the white towers were no 
longer visible amid the green. 

Presently they passed whereby is a noticeable land- 
mark in that smooth green country, an upstanding crag 
of red stone on a grassy hillock’s side, bearing some 
resemblance to an old churl’s head, double-chinned, grim- 
mouthed, knob-nosed, fantastically hatted with a great flat 
slab. Beiley remembered its being pointed out to him 
by Lady Sally once when they rode that way together, 
his then vivid recollection being in strong contrast to 
his former slack attention. Half a mile further they came 
within near sight of a village, and then Tally ceased to 
follow. Beiley turned to know the reason. She out- 
stretched her arm in the direction of Sheraton. Her eyes 
and the mute gesture pleaded with him, but again he 
shook his head. She seemed to understand sufficiently. 
She seized his nearer hand, and before he knew what 
she would be at had kissed it vehemently ; then she took 
something from her pocket, thrust it between his palm 
and his fingers and fled at a remarkable speed for one of 
her figure. It was a penny that she had put into his 
hand. He let it lie on his palm; he did not pursue 
her and in half a minute she had run out of sight. 


THE WEDDING MARCH 


301 


He continued walking briskly in the same direction as 
before, which was as nearly southward as he could hit 
it, through the just-mentioned village, up-hill and down- 
hill into another village and a wide valley. Many were 
the tall chimneys both to right and to left, indicative of 
populous places on either hand, but turning neither 
way he kept straight on. The road he was following 
dwindled to a lane, and the lane to a footpath. He 
accosted a man who was stepping towards the railway 
station which he had just passed, a respectable well- 
dressed buttoned-up sort of person. 

I want the nearest way to Leicester. Can you assist 
me ?” 

“That depends,” answered the respectable person, 
“ on what kind of assistance you require.” 

He felt the bottom button of his coat, if by some 
chance it were undone. 

“To be directed the best way.” 

“ The best way would be to go by train. The station 
is at hand.” 

“ I wish to go by road if you please.” 

“ In that case, as you are here, you cannot do better 
than cross the — than keep on to Marston. The road 
thence through Loughborough is fairly direct.” 

Beiley went on as directed, by the footpath which 
led past an ancient farmhouse into level meadows. The 
respectable person had mentioned all that, but abstained 
from mentioning the river through fear of being asked 
to contribute to the penny for the ferry. Beiley saw 
the glory before he saw the river. For opposite to him 
the mid-stream was flowing swiftly over a shallow 
gravelly bed, and a fresh breeze, which he had not been 
conscious of before, was blowing upwards and breaking 
it into myriads of wavelets, each of which wore a jewel- 
on its head, the gift of the sun. Moreover there were 
masses of weed which floated on the surface, yellow, 
brown and green, plentifully begemmed with points of 
reflected light; or but just submerged they lay adrift 
like the loose tresses of a water nymph, all green, a 


302 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


manifold green that mysteriously changed as the ripples 
overpassed into greens that glistened and greens that 
melted away into the lucent greys, violets and purples 
of the surrounding waters, or into the opaque browns 
and drabs of the shingly bottom. 

Beneath the bank whereon he stood the river flowed 
darkly and strongly; but down-stream a bushy islet 
divided its course; producing a backwater and giving 
partial shelter from the breeze, whence arose a certain 
confusion of currents and contrast of gleam and gloom 
which gave the whole an appearance of extraordinary 
animation. To and fro swallows, martins and scream- 
ing swifts darted incessantly, and a pair of yellow- 
breasted w^agtails fluttered delicately from point to point 
where the emergent w^eeds gave footing. He was sur- 
prised into admiration. 

There being no one within sight of whom to make 
inquiries but a boatman pulling from the opposite side, 
he sat down to await his arrival, and w^as immediately 
seized by a drow^siness so heavy, that the boatman had 
to bawl into his ear before he answered whether or no he 
wished to cross by the ferry. 

‘‘ I wish to go to Leicester,*’ said he. 

“ Then yer do want to go by the ferry,” said the 
boatman. ” Hurry up.” 

” How much is it ?” 

” A penny.” 

Beiley, roused and but half roused, walked down the 
bank and stumblingly took his seat in the boat. 

” Yo’ve bin haein* a sup,” said the ferryman. 

As he put off he continued, ” I might a said more nor 
a sup, but it’s alius safest to be o’ the small side. I can 
do ayther with or without, mysen. A man as can’t do 
without I call him a hog, and a man as does do without 
I call him a fool. There’s a teetotaler in our village, 
a reg’lar hot-watter un. I could faight ’im any day o’ 
th’ w^eek an’ knock ’im into the next day but one. I 
could faight ’im to-day, Friday, an’ knock ’im clean 
into Monday. Friday, Sat’day — into Sunday, I mean. 


THE WEDDING MARCH 


303 

Knock ^im clean into Sunday mornin’, just i’ time for 
church or a late breakfast accordin’ to his fancy.” 

But the words went by the hearer’s ears as the swift 
waters went before his eyes, giving him a bare sense 
of movement, none of a meaning. He woke up however 
from his lethargy as he stumbled out of the boat on to 
the gravel. He took from his pocket the penny that 
Tally had given him. It seemed to him that it had but 
just been slipped into his palm. He looked across the 
river as thinking to see her speeding away from him. 

” Yo seem very choice o’ that penny, mester,” said 
the ferryman. 

“ Yes, but it’s the only one I have upon me.” 

” No matter for that; pay me next time yer come this 
way.” 

” That may be never.” 

” Balm ! Never ’s a date as no business man feks 
no orders for. Yer wouldn’t ’ardly get a sportin’ chap 
to ventur a bet on’t. There een’t no day i’ th’ week as 
is named after it. I alius faight shoy o’ them tinety 
little words as teks so much on theirsens. They slip 
out so easy among the big common words as means noat 
partic’lar, like a hafe-sovereign in a drizzle o’ coppers. 
Mornin’ to yer.” 

The ferryman had already been hailed from the farther 
side. Three strong pulls of the left arm and one of the 
right, and there were already twenty yards of water 
between him and his fare. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 
clockin’-time 

Beiley walked no further than from the gravel to the 
grass. He sat down, lay down, and no sooner did his 
body feel the support and comfort of the warm soft bank 
than he fell fast asleep. He was waked about two 
hours after noon by a purple-faced perspiring busybody, 
who shook him by the shoulders until he sat up, and 
then shouted in his bewildered ear : 

I thought p’raps you didn’t know you was asleep. 
The sun’s hot and your ’at’s fell off.” 

He rose automatically, and without a word of thanks, 
unthanks or argument turned and went tow^ards the 
neighbouring village. Gradually his unconscious going 
became conscious; in which change pain was the chief 
agent. It was not so much the overpowering heat and 
glare of the sun that beat upon his head and flashed 
directly in his eyes, nor yet the inconvenience of the 
dust, the foot-weariness or the debility of hunger, as a 
long-hoarded consuming thirst which made his dry 
tongue seem to bulk larger than all the rest of his body. 
He stopped at a cottage to inquire the way, and while 
the housewife and her daughter discussed the advan- 
tage of an obscure footpath, which rightly followed 
w^ould take off half a mile but diverged from would put 
on a mile, he drank so copiously of water that for the 
moment his appetite seemed quenched; but within ten 
minutes it was back upon him again as furious as ever. 
Having passed through the village he again begged a 
draught of water at a farmhouse by the road-side. The 

304 


CLOCKIN’-TIME 


305 


farmer’s wife gave him instead a mug of milk with the 
explanation that their water was nothing to crack of. 

“ It’s as cheap sitting as standing,” she said and 
pointed to a bench under the kitchen window. 

From the back door the stackyard was fully visible. 
It contained several completed stacks and one of wheat 
but half-built. The waggon that was drawn up beside 
it was empty and stackers and teemer had gone away. 
Presumably they were taking their afternoon refresh- 
ment in the house, whence a rumble of voices came inter- 
mittently. The housewife, a clear-skinned quick-eyed 
woman in spite of her grey hairs and some fifty-five 
years, went in and was busy about her household chores ; 
nevertheless her noticing eyes took the travel-stained 
wayfarer in as he sat in front of the window and drank 
the milk, not with loud animal gulps like an ordinary 
tramp but with the restraint of a gentleman in a lady’s 
company. Presently he came to the door with his best 
thanks and the empty mug. 

‘‘ Will yer have another sup?” asked the woman. 

“ I mustn’t encroach upon your kindness.” 

“Yer should do like the nessbubs; ^ they never lose 
a good chance for want of an open gawp.” 

She went in and quickly returned with the mug 
re-filled. 

“ Here, take and drink.” 

“ If I can do something for you in return.” 

“ I don’t know as yer can’t.” She looked him keenly 
over with her practical eyes. “ It’s afternoon clockin*- 
time and the men’s teas want carrying to the field. The 
boy who should have took it on the empty waggon 
hasn’t come yet, the servant-lass has gone to see her 
mother who’s ill, and my daughter who might take it 
won’t. That’s the whole pedigree.” 

“ I’ll take it with pleasure.” 

After due preparation she brought out a big can of 
hot tea and a large two-lidded basket stuffed with sliced 
bread and butter and chunks of coarse currant-cake. 

^ Nestlings. 


20 


3o6 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ Here, take this maund on your arm,” she said, 
” and the tea in your tother hand, and come out into the 
road and I’ll direct yer. Look! yer must turn to yer 
right at the cross-roads and go up-hill ; then count four 
gates on the left ’and, four, and at the fourth yer must 
go in ; then it’s only one field off. Barton is carrying 
too, but it’s not Barton’s yer want, it’s Pullen’s. But 
there, the master’ll holler as soon as he sees yer.” 

Can and basket were no light burden to one in Beiley’s 
ill-fed unrested condition, but it was in his thought that 
the farmer’s wife was still at the gate watching his 
progress. She had in fact gone in as soon as his back 
was turned, but the contrary impression so stiffened his 
curved spine and yielding limbs, that he was enabled to 
keep on without changing hands until he reached the 
cross-roads ; not until he was within the fourth gate did 
he stand to take breath and wipe the blinding sweat out 
of his eyes. While he stood a laden waggon was drawn 
across the close by a fidgety mare all of a lather. 

” Is that for Pullen’s?” said the boy who led it. 

”Yes.” 

” I should a bin there sooner, but this swine of a mare 
backed into a ditch an’ nearly killed me an’ another 
man.” 

The mare would not wait for more; she went hotly 
through the gate making a very fine miss of the post. 
When Beiley was half through the close, before he had 
time to doubt between Barton’s and Pullen’s, he heard 
a loud prolonged holloa which drew him to the right 
diagonally across field. As he advanced the holloas 
became louder and more frequent; and could presently 
be divided into words. 

“Be sharp! Is this for huz? Come on with yer! 
Why are yer so late? Come sharply on ! Why didn’t 
Vitie bring it? But I know ! I know ! Leg it, man ! 
We’re sorely in need of a sup o’ summat ! Put some 
expression into yer feet ! Who are yer? I don’t seem 
to know yer. Sluther along ! Are yer a Doddingham 
man? Yer come forrard so slow yer seem further off 


CLOCKIN’-TIME 


307 


every step ! Come, come ! It must be four o’clock 
now, and it’ll be midnight afore you’re here. Did the 
missis say if Robert had been ? Come, come ! a young 
man ought to be limberer!” 

By then Beiley had crossed the first field and through 
a gap in the hedge had entered the second, in which 
harvesting operations were going on, a long narrowish 
enclosure on the ridge of the hill. 

“ It een’t no man o’ ourn,” piped a boy’s shrill voice 
in manifest disappointment. 

The same voice as before, an astonishingly loud clear 
full and far-carrying voice, bawled back: ‘‘It’s our 
basket and our can howsumever. That’ll serve ! Bring 
’em across.” 

Beiley now perceived mistily through the drizzle of 
sweat from his forehead, that the voice belonged to a 
white-haired man who stood in the waggon, buried 
almost to his broad shoulders in the up-piled sheaves of 
wheat. 

‘‘Just these two tinety ends of rows and then it’ll 
do!” he shouted; and ever as he shouted he was 
receiving and arranging the sheaves, which the pitchers 
on either side of the waggon delivered to him with their 
long forks. 

As Beiley came within something like easy speaking- 
distance the farmer said : 

‘‘ Why didn’t yer answer me, man — all those remarks 
I made?” 

‘‘ I thought they were merely rhetorical questions.” 

‘‘ Hey? What did the man say?” 

‘‘ ’E said,” answered a pitcher, ‘‘ ’e tho’t they was 
rotten questions.” 

‘‘Nay, man, nay! A rotten question’s such a one 
as provokes an evil answer; now mine didn’t provoke 
any answer, either good or bad.” 

‘‘ I said ‘ rhetorical.’ ” 

‘‘Hey? Parabolical? That’s a big word on an 
empty stomach. Up with the rope, Joe !” 

The last sheaf had been lifted; the load was securely 


3o8 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


roped ; the loader slid to the ground ; with heavy-handed 
stolidity the three pitchers stuck their forks in the hard 
hot ground; the boy left the horse’s head. Beiley 
having set his burden down was moving off. In reply 
to his passing good-day the farmer said : 

“ But you’ll stop and have a snack with us before 
yer go.” 

” I’ve just had two glasses of milk at the house.” 

” Then you’ll be wanting the tea and sugar to it. 
And you’ve earned them.” 

The farmer sat in the shadow of the waggon with a 
sheaf for a cushion and his broad back to one of the 
wheels. He pulled the basket to him, bared his head 
for a moment and said : 

” Lord’s name be praised, Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen. 
We’ll present a lenthier thanksgiving, not a heartier, 
at half-time.” 

With rough and ready rapidity he served to each 
man a mug of tea and a slice of bread and butter. The 
others sat about on the stubble within easy reach, all 
but a sleek little middle-aged black-haired short-limbed 
blinking man whom they called Mouldiwarp or the 
Mole. 

” Coom an’ sit again me, Mouldiwarp,” said the 
tallest of the pitchers. 

” Not he,” said the third, a red-haired fair-skinned 
man; ” he’s fun out a patent road of eatin’ an’ he’s 
afeared o* huz ’fringin’ on’t.” 

Mouldiwarp without answering took his portion and 
sat apart behind one of the stowks. 

“Well, men,” said the farmer, “we’ve a deal to be 
thankful for. We ought to humble ourselves when we 
compare our privileges with our deserts. I can feel 
those pestering little pissimires ^ all up my legs a’ready. 
Another tot of tea and a bite more bread and butter? 
I don’t know yer name. How did the missis happen 
on yer?” 


1 Ants. 


CLOCKIN^TIME 309 

“ I had called in passing to beg a drink of water,*’ 
said Beiley, 

“What are yer sniggering at, Tom Morley?** said 
the farmer. 

“ Becos,** answered the boy, “the man meks all ’is 
wuds so small loike.” 

“ Do yer set yerself up, Tom Morley, to be the 
standard of pronounciation for the hull country?’* 

“ I dunno.’’ 

“Set it down; there’s something yer don’t know. 
And with that set down this : When yer laugh at a 
feller-man you’re laughing mainly at yerself.’’ 

“ Some more to drink, please,’’ said Tom Morley. 

The farmer again removed his hat. 

“Lord,’’ he said, “Thy name be praised for what 
we’ve had and what we’re going to have. The bread 
and butter and cake’s good, the tea’s particular good. 
I’m still insufficiently ashamed of my fleshly impatience 
to be drinking and grubbing; do Thou, Lord, transform 
it into a spiritual hunger and thirst for the bread of 
heaven and the water of life, for Jesus Christ’s sake. 
Amen.’* 

Sweet to Lord Beiley was that coarse home-made 
bread and weak luke-warm tea. Sweet and straw- 
scented was the air of that dining-hall, wide were its 
walls, flawless its azure ceiling; golden gleamed the 
stubble that carpeted its floor. Fair were the wood- 
crowned hills on the horizon with here and there a 
village and up-pointing spire; fair were the rich green 
meadows between. 

“ Barton’s ull be done a long chalk afore huz,’’ said 
the red-haired pitcher. 

“Good reason too,’’ said the farmer; “they’ve a 
sight more help. Well, I offered Jacob Foster the same 
as you’re addling yourselves, but he preferred six- 
pennorth of beer to ninepennorth of money.’’ 

“’E says,’’ quoth another of the pitchers, the tall one, 
“as Mester Barton’s beer an’ damns meks a stronger 
mixtur nor your tea an’ texes, ’e says.” 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


310 

“ Von’s a hawk,” said Tom Morley. 

Beiley’s eyes slowly followed the direction of the boy’s 
finger up into the blue; in the midst of which as it 
seemed the bird hung on motionless wings. His eyes 
found the bird and the next moment were closed in 
sleep. 

He awoke when the waggon began to move. Mr. 
Pullen was standing over him, and saying : 

” Do yer want a job of work?” 

” I beg your pardon.” 

” I to’d yer, mester,” said the red-haired pitcher, 
” ‘ Beg yer pardon ’ alius cooms first an’ then ‘ Beg yer 
penny.’ ” 

“Hold yer tongue, Joe; yer don’t understand the 
man’s language. That’s the high way of saying, 
‘ Speak up, man. Either I’m deaf or you’re a 
mumbler.’ ” 

“ It may be the high way, it een’t the nigh way. 
When I’m spoke to I like a bit o’ Hinglish.” 

“If he could nubbut walk at the boss’s head,” said 
the tall pitcher, “ he’d set one o’ the lads at liberty to 
help Adam on the stack.” 

“ We’re very short-handed,” said the farmer. 

“I’m not clever at anything,” said Beiley, “but if 
you’ll show me what you want I’ll try to do it.” 

So to him was assigned the humble duty of guiding 
betw^een the upstanding stowks the horse attached to 
the empty waggon. Before its floor was covered with 
sheaves he had learnt that he must shout “ Ho’d yer !” 
each time that he moved on, as a warning to the loader 
to steady himself with his fork. When he also under- 
stood that “ auve ” meant draw to the left and “ gee ” to 
the right he was efficient for his duties. The work was 
mere boy’s work; the food and drink had put life into 
him ; being honestly, usefully occupied he felt less of 
the outcast. The animal in the shafts was a bay mare, 
Vi’let by name, not very big of bone but willing and 
mettlesome, with a tender mouth. There had been 
trouble with her during the afternoon, but her present 


CLOCKIN^TIME 


3 ^ 

conductor’s hand was gentle and he and she came at 
once to an understanding. There was a closer relation 
between the two as fellow-workers than there had ever 
been between him and the most favoured of his many 
steeds as rider and ridden-on, driver and driven. And 
I believe he liked her none the worse for her sex. 

“ The mare’s steadied down,” said the tall pitcher. 

” She’s right enoo,” said the farmer, ” if she’s rightly 
dealt with, like all females. Vi’let, my beauty!” 

The mare heard, lifted her head and made nothing of 
the growing load. The heat from the slant sun was 
not so great, fragrant was the all-pervading scent of the 
straw. The stubble changed according to the point of 
view. What was now merely a shorn stalk palely semi- 
transparent, was now a flashlet of pure light. Loud 
from a neighbouring close on the other side of the ridge 
came the voices of Barton’s beer-encouraged men. The 
overhanging load grew until horse and driver hardly 
appeared under it. Then the tall pitcher made the rope 
fast and tossed it up to the loader ; who dropped it down 
on the other side to Mouldiwarp, who slipped it under 
the hook and putting his foot to the wheel for purchase 
pulled it taut. Thus passed and re-passed the rope was 
duly secured; and Beiley exchanged with Tom Morley 
loaded waggon for another empty one. The new 
draught-horse was a gelding. Sparrow by name, dark 
brown, aged, large-framed, hard-mouthed, steady, some- 
what sluggish and a slow starter. 

” Why don’t yer shout ‘Pull up,’” said Joe, “an’ 
gie the rein a good jag?” 

“ Because I think he’ll do without,” said Beiley. 

He took an interest — being of so low a thing it must 
not be called a pride — in getting good work out of the 
animal by his quieter method. 

“You’ve been used to bosses, I can see,” said the 
master when they were again changing waggons. 

“ Yo handled that mongrel, Sparrer,” said Joe, “as 
if ’e were a gentleman’s thoroughbred.” 

“Why not?” said Beiley. 


312 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘Just becos ’e’ll be fair spoilt for the nex’-coom 
driver on hm.’’ 

“ Unless the next driver understands something about 
horses/' 

“ D'yer mean as I don't unnerstan' noat about 
bosses?" 

‘‘ I didn't say so." 

‘‘Why didn’t yer say so? Eh? Why didn’t yer? 
Why not?" 

‘‘ Because I choose what I say for myself." 

‘‘ Yo an’ yer ‘ choose ’ ! A thin-gutted London tailor 
on the road ! I hope Parsley ull gie yer a nip ower the 
elber afore ’e’s done wi’ yer." 

‘‘ Auve a bit, London Tailor," said Mouldiwarp; the 
first words he had spoken since his ‘‘ not a bite more " 
during the clockin’. 

‘‘ I’ve a text in my mind, friends," said the farmer. 
‘‘ No, it’s not for you, Joe, who don’t need it, but I 
believe it’s very suitable for everybody else." 

" Well, I’ve noat to say agen texes like that," said 
Joe. " Some texes — well. I’d sooner be hulled at. 
Texes, to be civil, ought ayther to be ‘ iv’rybody ’ere 
present accepted ’ or else just to be chucked about like 
apples for them to scuffle for as likes 'em." 

"It is this: ‘Behold, we put bits in the horses’ 
mouths, that they may obey us; and we turn about their 
whole body. But the tongue can no man tame; it is 
an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.’ " 

"That’s more commoner sense about bosses," said 
Joe, "nor yer mostly gits in a tex’ ; they warn’t 
gen’rally made up by practical men, I reckon. But I've 
knowed bosses — Mester Brown hed one — as were that 
'ard-mouthed, O as hard as flint ! — a gret big grey it 
war — that a traction ingin couldn’t a turned his whole 
body, unless his fancy were that-a-way inclined." 

Parsley, the change horse, was a gelding too, but 
younger and of a lighter brown than Sparrow, with no 
marked characteristics but the abundance of his snowy 
fetlocks and a disposition to snap at anything and every- 


CLOCKIN’-TIME 


313 


thing; less it would seem out of vice than an unregul- 
ated appetite. At the stoppages his driver fed him 
with ears of corn out of his hand, and standing quietly 
let him sniff him all over with his wide inquisitive 
nostrils. 

The harvesters prolonged their toil until the slant 
magnificence of the sun was replaced by the full-orbed 
placidity of the moon, and the day’s heat was succeeded 
by an almost frosty chilliness. Barton’s men had taken 
themselves off from the ungarnished close; but the 
voices of their stack-builders, three furlongs away on 
the other side of the road, sounded so near, that the 
harvesters almost persuaded themselves that they could 
distinguish words. 

‘‘ That were oad Hooper speakin’ then,” said the tall 
pitcher. 

” An’ that were Timmy’s laugh to it,” said Joe. 

The last top-heavy waggonful was left on the field, 
the horses were driven homewards, the labourers followed 
them with lumbering weary gait. Beiley walked in 
their midst, but with his eyes on the ground, as though 
he were studying the intricate diapery of light and shade 
that the moonshine traced among the stub^ble. But no 
such thing; his weariness, which had been kept off for 
a while by the salutary preoccupations of labour, had 
come back upon him in redoubled force; on his mind 
even more than on his body. The only thing that dis- 
tinguished him from an automaton was sensation ; his 
memory was but a dulled sensation, a less pain to him 
than his blistered feet. 

As he passed through the last gate he heard the 
horses’ hooves crunch the stones of the road, and the 
moment after he felt its hardness to his own tender soles. 
He stood; the rest drew away from him. When they 
were but ten yards withdrawn he had already forgotten 
them, or remembered without discrimination as part and 
parcel of an unseparated past. Therefore it was instinct- 
ively or by mere chance that he turned the same way 
and limped after them, but when the others went through 


3H 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


the farm gate he kept on down the road. Pullen, remem- 
bering him, turned and called to him. 

‘‘ Come, I don’t take it kindly of yer to go off like that 
without a word said.” 

The rousing sound of the farmer’s voice brought him 
back to the present. 

” Where was yer going to?” 

” To Leicester.” 

” Come in with me; you’ve a'ddled supper and bed 
at any rate.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

t 

THE DAY-MAN 

Lord Beiley accompanied the farmer, heard him 
speak and answered ; then straightway forgot both 
question and reply. He entered the house with him ; 
saw it as a featureless contrivance of passages, doors 
and walls that shut off the within from the without, in 
nothing different from every other house; saw men and 
women in it, but without finer discrimination of them 
than into men and women. Being invited he sat before 
a table; immediately his head sank to the level of the 
board and he was fast asleep. He could not be roused 
to accept the invitation to eat and drink, but his outer 
shell was so far stirred into consciousness as to clamber 
up the flight of steep stairs with him, shed his outer 
garments and slip into a bed. 

It was approaching noon of the next day when Mrs. 
Pullen, after thrice beating in vain upon his door with 
no light hand, at last lifted the sneck and peeped in. 

“Come, man, come!” she said. “Are yer never 
going to waken up? It’s eleven o’clock time.” Beiley 
opened his eyes but without seeing. “ Be ashamed of 
yerself to lie slugging there, when everybody else is 
hard at it.” 

He more than opened his eyes, he saw with them and 
sat up. Clearly he perceived the long attic, its rude 
whitewashed walls, its low sloping roof, lightened by 
a narrow skylight through which the sun shone and 
fiercely illuminated a strip of plaster flooring, ancient 
and uneven. 

“ Where am I ?’ • he said. 

3^5 


3i6 a walking gentleman 

“ You’re at Starnel Farm, Mars’on, Nottinghamshire, 
England, the World, as we uster say at school. But 
it’s high time you and that bed parted company. The 
master said yer weren’t to be disturbed; but it worrited 
me to have a man lying asleep when all the rest of uz 
were up and doing. ’Twas as bad as having a corpse 
in the house, and a corpse yer weren’t int’rested in.” 

He laid his head back on the pillow. 

“Come, none of that! You’ve got to get up. 
Consider yerself warned.” 

So saying she withdrew from the door but without 
closing it. In a minute or two from the foot of the 
stairs she called out : 

“Are yer getting up?” 

“Yes,” said Beiley, flinging back the bed-clothes. 

“ Then let me hear yer on the floor.” 

He let his feet drop on the cold bare plaster. 

“Now founder^ along, or yer’ll hardly be in time 
to make a dinner of yer breakfast.” 

In a few minutes he came down to the stair door, 
which opened into the kitchen. Mrs. Pullen stood ai 
a flap-table under the far window, with much energy 
rolling out a thick slab of pastry with a rolling-pin. 

“ Good-morning,” said he. 

“ If it’s not too late,” said she. 

The kitchen was a low spacious room lighted by a 
window at each end. It was scrupulously clean but 
for the recent marks of men’s boots on the brick floor, 
and especially under the heavy deal table which stood 
in the middle. 

“ That bread and meat on the table’s for yer, and 
the basin of cold tea. Why don’t the man begin?” 

“ I should feel the better for a wash first.” 

Mrs. Pullen pointed to the pump and sink under the 
window on the other side of the room. 

“There’s plenty of water and plenty of soap. The 
towel hings behind the door.” 

“ Do you allow me to take my coat off?” 

1 Hurry. 


THE DAY-MAN 


317 

“Why not? ’Tisn’t like as if ’twere yer skin. I 
look to hear yer ask permission of the pump next.“ 

The icy cold water straight from the depths of the 
well was delightful to his hot hands and forehead. He 
splashed himself to his heart’s content, and then rubbed 
himself dry with the rough jack-towel that hung upon 
the door. 

“ Now eat that bit of meat out the road,” said Mrs. 
Pullen; “ Pm sick of seeing it about.” 

While he was eating the daughter of the house 
entered, a pretty slip of a country maid, red-lipped, 
with violet eyes under dark-brown hair, cheeks perfectly 
rounded and of a dusky crimson, in which the hey-day 
of her blood had so much the better of the sun that it 
made of his stain an enhancement. She carried in a 
basket some potatoes which she had been forking up in 
the garden. 

“ Look, mother,” she said; “ these will have to do.” 

Lord Beiley rose. Apparently she saw him no more 
when her face was towards him than when hejc back was. 

“You must peel them, mother; it stains my hands 
so. ril finish the pies.” 

Lord Beiley sat again and went on with his eating; 
he felt of singularly little importance. The girl donned 
a long white apron, pinned back her sleeves and set 
to the pie-making. She stood by the window in the 
best of the light, just out of the sunshine; but scatter- 
ings of its rays would be leaving their course in order 
to play with her hair, and a strong reflection from a 
saucepan lid on the w^all near by was now on her 
floury fingers, now on her dimpled elbow, and now 
called attention to the slimness of her waist. Nothing 
of which Lord Beiley saw; he gave all his attention to 
his knife and fork until he had cleared his plate. 

“There’s more where that came from,” said the 
housewife. 

“ No more, thank you.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“ Thompson.” 


318 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“The master told me to tell yer, if yer like to go 
down to the close he can find yer something to do.“ 

“ I will gladly do so.“ 

“ He values yer to be worth something like a boy’s 
wage, and that’s two shilling a day, or a shilling a day 
living in.” 

“ I doubt whether I’m worth as much.” 

“ Well, don’t make it yer business to turn the doubt 
into a certainty. And you’d better be moving. A day 
as begins at noon can’t be said to be more than a bad 
half-day.” Beiley rose. “ I suppose I must put yer up 
a mite of dinner, or yer won’t be satisfied.” 

“Quite unnecessary, thank you; I ” 

“ Well, if you’re satisfied the master won’t be; which 
i’ this house he makes to be of more consequence. Fetch 
the meat out again, Vitie.” 

Miss Pullen bridled up. 

“ I’ll wait on you, mother, but I won’t wait on your 
men. Not likely!” 

“ I feel sometimes as I could give yer a good smack. 
I’ve no patience!” The mother went through a door 
under the stairs down into the larder, and fetched thence 
a piece of boiled brisket of beef. “Yer pick and choose 
yer work just as yer do yer victuals, and saucy at both. 
I say, drat such niceness !” 

“ That’s swearing, mother !” 

“You never heard me swear. I was brought up 
diff’rent to that. And I was brought up diff’rent to you 
in a many many w^ays.” 

“Tell me one, mother.” 

“ For one thing uz children — talk about saucing our 
parents — why, we wasn’t expected to speak till we was 
spoke to.” 

“When did you leave that off? Before you were 
married or after?” 

The mother did not immediately reply, being intent 
on making up the slices she had cut from the beef into 
clumsy sandwiches, inch-thick. 

“ If you don’t tell me, I shall ask dada,” 


THE DAY-MAN 


319 


‘‘ Anyhow it wasn’t any great while before, yer may 
depend on that. Yer dada spoils yer, fair spoils yer.” 

” Why do you let him, mother, if it’s wrong?” 

” Let him? Hark at the wench !” 

” I won’t be called a wench, mother. Polly Cadge is 
a wench.” 

” Well, I’m sure, young madam I And what diff’rent 
flesh and blood are you to Polly Cadge?” 

” I mayn’t have different flesh and blood but I’ve a 
different skin.” 

Mrs. Pullen was already thrusting the sandwiches into 
a blue paper sugar-bag. Suddenly the girl turned to 
the stranger; the first time since her entrance that she 
had apparently looked his way or given him a thought. 

” Do you like fat?” she said. 

” A little,” said he. 

” So do I; just a mite^^ if it’s nice; bark-fat.” 

She took the bag from her mother’s hands, drew the 
sandwiches out, opened them and proceeded to cut away 
most of the superabundant fat. 

” What ever are yer doing that for?” asked the 
mother. 

” Because it makes me feel bilious to look at them.” 

She cut another slice or two of lean to replace what 
she had taken away. 

” You’d better put them together again yourself, 
mother; I don’t want it to be supposed that’s my idea 
of a sandwich.” 

” No, yours hardly make one bite out of a dozen of 
’em. But yer needn’t think I’m going to stand all this 
sinful waste of fat, for I won’t.” 

” Put it into a potato-pie, mother.” 

” Will you eat it?” 

” No, mother.” 

” Then what right have yer to ask other folk to eat 
it?” 

” None whatever; I just choose to. I’m going now 
to tidy my room.” 

She was gone before Beiley, and had not taken another 


320 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


glance at him. He made his way down to the har- 
vesters. He did not feel at all fit; his injured leg still 
troubled him, his feet were blistered, his joints ached, 
it appeared to him, each with a separate ache. Mr. 
Pullen from the waggon that he was loading began to 
call to him as soon as he was within shouting-distance. 

“ What time of day do yer call this ? What have yer 
got in that blue bag ? Is it your dinner ? I should have 
thought you’d have brought it inside yer. We shall 
have finished this close by four o’clock. It’s sooner too 
dry than not dry enoo. Well, Joe may say what he 
likes, but that’s a good fault. Then there’s the barley 
wants stowking in the North Piece. Thank the Lord 
for this spell of fine. But I wish we could school our- 
selves to thank Him for any sort of weather. What’s 
the matter with yer? Yer don’t seem to omble along 
oh so gaily oh I” 

That was the first question that Beiley attempted to 
answer. 

“A blister? Oh, that’s bad! Yer should have put 
a bit of taller in yer stocking; or other grease. 
Brewster’s lad’s gone over to Mr. Barton, so we’re 
worse off than ever.” 

Vi’let was in the shafts. She put her wide-sniffing 
nostrils to Beiley’s cheek and seemed pleased to have 
him near. By degrees the continual motion oiled his 
stiffness; he seem.ed to shed part of his pains along the 
windrows as he went; his miserable limp became some- 
thing like the gait of a man. 

From the uneyable white of the sun to the grey verge 
of the horizon the sky was an azure arch, one blue of 
infinite gradation, image of a divine munificence, re- 
splendent, ungrudging, unparcelled, without reserve. 
The straw smelt good. The shrill clamour of a con- 
gregation of starlings which had taken possession of an 
oak and the adjacent hedge on the far side of the close, 
the busy hum of a passing bee, the slow croak of a 
solitary crow, the rustle of the sheaves as they were 
uplifted, the boisterous shouts of Barton’s harvesters on 


THE DAY-MAN 


321 


the other side of the ridge, the voices of his stackers 
faint with the distance, the incessant passing of trains 
in the unseen river valley were part of the general 
silence. It was so large that their own loud “ Ho’d 
yer and the combined jingle, creak and rumble of the 
heavy-going waggon nowise disturbed it. So long as 
Beiley could keep his thoughts from going further than 
he could see, he was wellnigh content in his humble 
capacity of day-boy. He armed himself with a leafy ash 
twig to waft the flies away from the horses’ heads. Joe 
grumbled. 

That chap’ll ruin them bosses for sensable usage. 
Mardyin’ ^ on ’em up like that !” 

‘‘ What occasion have you to chunter?” ^ said Pullen 
from the waggon. ” It is written, ‘ The merciful man 
is merciful to his beast.’ ” 

” The best marcy yer can show a boss,” said Joe, ” if 
that’s what yer mean by a beast, is a good switch across 
the rump; it’ll help him along better nor oat. P’ll up 
then !” 

So saying he brought the shaft of his fork down 
upon Vi’let’s quarters, which made her start and show 
temper. Beiley as soon as he had quieted her said : 

” While I’m leading this mare you’ll be good enough 
to keep your hands off her.” 

” I shall do as I like,” said Joe scornfully. ” Yo an’ 
yer ‘ good enough ’ ! I reckon oat’s good enough for 
sich uns as yo. Pull up, yo damned slut! Auve!” 

He had his fork up ready for the stroke, but Beiley 
kept his eyes upon him and he began to force his 
bluster. 

” What d’yer set me like that for? If yer mean 
summat say summat.” 

” I’ve said all I have to say,” said Beiley. 

” D’yer want to faight?” Joe stuck his fork in the 
ground. ” Come on then ! I’m as fierce as yo.” 

” Yo’ve bin fo yer brown bottle two ’r three times too 
often,” Said the tall pitcher. 

^ Spoiling by Indulgencei ^ Grumble. 


21 


322 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“What’s the matter?” said Pullen, who could not 
see them from the top of the waggon. 

“ I do b’lieve there’s gooin’ to be a faight,” said 
Mouldiwarp with a sleek satisfaction. I 

“Backs I the winner,” said Tom Morley; he had j 
just brought up the unloaded waggon. 

“ Square up like a man if yo’re game, an’ coom on,” ; 
said Joe. “ I can’t stan’ all day waitin’ on yer.” 

“ I’ve something else to do just now,” said Beiley. 

“ Ho’d yer!” 

He led the waggon on. ; 

“ There’ll be no faight, not there !” said Tom Morley, 
disappointed. 

“ Is that you, Joe Biddle?” shouted the farmer. 

“ Mebbe ’tis, mebbe ’teen’t.” 

“ It’s the half of him, it’s the tongue-part of him 
any’ow. Joe, be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry; 
for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.” 

“I’m not a fool. To prove it I’ll faight the best 
man on the ground. Can I say fairer nor that? Who 
are yer laughin’ at. Bill Moffrey?” 

“ At yo,” said the tall pitcher. 

“Then yo’re laughin’ at a better man nor yersen.” 

“ It behoves me to believe it sin yo say it.” 

“ Ay, an’ I’ll mek it good an’ all.” 

“ Keep on picking!” shouted Pullen. 

Indeed the need to keep on pitching presently reduced 
Joe’s anger to a lukewarm grumbling temperature. 
Once or twice he was minded to give Parsley a prod, 
but Beiley and his intention always happened to be on 
the same side of the horse, and the one’s cool watchful- 
ness disconcerted the other’s malice. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE CHALLENGE 

As the last waggonful was being loaded and the 
thirstiest time in the whole day was approaching, Pullen 
said to his new man — or half-man : 

“ You’d better go and see if the missis has a cup 
of tea for us.” 

Beiley went, but met Vide on the road laden with 
basket and can. When he had relieved her of them she 
might have returned, but she said : 

“Since I’ve come so far I may as well go all the 
way.” 

When he put down the can and held the gate open 
for her she liked it. 

“ You’re not used to farm-work, are you ?” she asked. 

“No,” said Beiley. 

“ What work are you used to?” 

“ None, I’m afraid.” 

“ Oh ! then you won’t stop here long.” 

“ Probably not.” 

The farmer’s voice was already hailing them a close 
and a half away. 

“Why did you come an’ all, Vitie? Another load 
and we’ve done. Thank the Lord for that ! And all 
His favours ! What a thirsty climate this is for sure ! 
Have yer seen the dog ? Put yer best leg forrard I 
Barton’s are in their Anyhow Cluss. What joint has 
mother got for to-morrer? The jink of that tin’s almost 
more than I can bear. The Lord knoweth our human 
frailty, knoweth that we are but dust. And dry dust at 
that. Come on ! We’ll have it under the old oak.” 

323 


324 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


As they all moved towards a great tree upstanding j 
from the hedge which ran along the ridge of the hill, | 
they came at last within answering distance. Then he i 
said to Vitie : 

‘‘ Why have yer put yer best ’at on?” 

” Don’t pretend to know my hats, dada.” 

” Well, well ! let it pass. That cup of tea seems furder j 
away than ever. Where did yer get that colour, lass?” | 

” What colour ? The ribbon ? I got it from Notting- 
ham.” 

“The ribbon? No, lass; the cheek. It’s a sight, 
isn’t it?” This to Beiley. 

“ It’s so hot,” said Vitie. 

The farmer sat with his broad back to the old oak, 
Joe and Bill under the low hedge, their feet in the dry 
ditch ; Tom Morley lay all his length along the ground ; 
Mouldiwarp and the peer were unplaced. Vitie pointed 
with her finger and addressed the latter. 

“You must sit there, next to dada.” 

She took the can and beginning with her father and 
the new man began to distribute cups of tea. 

“ I never knew yer do that before, lass,” said the 
farmer. 

“ If I’d done it once, dada, I shouldn’t want to do it 
again. Give this to Moffrey, Tom, and don’t drink 
it up with your eyes. This is for Biddle. That’s only 
a stranger in it, Biddle. Where is Mouldiwarp ? Here, 
Mouldiwarp.” 

When they each had cup in hand, she gave them 
slices of bread and butter and cake round. Mouldiwarp 
took his portion and pushing through a thin part of the 
hedge, where it was shaded by the oak, found a place 
out of sight on the other side. 

“ But you haven’t brought yerself a cup, Vitie,” said 
Pullen ; “ that was an oversight.” 

“ I’m not thirsty.” 

“ But yer must be with such a many thirsty faces 
around yer. Yer must sit again me and drink out of 
my cups” 


THE CHALLENGE 


3^5 


“ I should be in the way.** 

‘‘ Not a bit on’t,*’ said her father. 

“ Most certainly not,*’ said Lord Beiley. 

So she sat down between the two and sipped from 
her father’s cup and nibbled a bit of cake. Her girlish 
beauty seemed to colour all their proceedings. Joe 
Biddle recovered from his half-tipsy quarrelsomeness, 
the flies ceased to plague Bill Moffrey, Tom Morley 
ate without bolting; even Mouldiwarp was drawn out 
of his reserve and said from the other side of the 
hedge : 

“Shouldn’t wunner if this weather lasses.** 

“ Glad to have your presence here, lass,** quoth the 
farmer; “ it’s worth two extry cups of tea.” 

“ Thanks for the compliment, dada. I should have 
been satisfied if you’d said one cup, especially as the 
cup’s so big and the tea so sweet.” 

And what were Beiley’s thoughts? Did they not 
lend even to exaggerate, if possible, the influence of a 
woman on her world? For the woman in his mind had 
more than skin-beauty, was high-spirited, fine-witted, 
honest-hearted, an accomplished woman. But her 
world was no longer his world ; he stood without ; which 
if perhaps the better situation for the appreciation was 
the worse for the appreciator. 

“ Isn’t your cup empty yet?” 

The words brought him back with something of pain, 
something of relief, to his present. He emptied his 
cup and accepted another filling; preferred the offer of 
bread and butter to that of cake ; was able, being asked 
by Pullen if he had ever been in that neighbourhood 
before, to say no; but when Vitie said : “ Then you don’t 
know that place yonder?” was not able to add a second 
denial; the no on his lips would not come forth. For 
his eyes following her finger across the river valley 
beheld the towers that he knew" so well, w^hite almost 
buried in an abundance of green, just peering over the 
woody brow of a spur set nearly at right angles to the 
ridge whereon he sat. 


326 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ That’s Sheraton Towers,” said Tom Morley, “ that’s 
where the Earl of ’Exgrove lives.” 

” I expect you’ve heard of Lady Sally Sallis?” said 
Vitie. 

The yes proved even harder to bring forth than the 
no. 

” I lay her to be a bad madam,” said Joe. 

Said Lord Beiley, ” You’re not at liberty to dare ” 

and stopped. The farmer’s eyes were upon him wonder- 
ingly. But Joe took up the broken challenge. 

” I’m at liberty to do oat as I like. What have yer 
to say agen that?” 

” Be quiet, Joe,” said Pullen. 

” I wain’t be quiet. If any man dares me I dare 
him.” 

” A little more tea, Joe?” said Vitie. 

The need to say ” Just a drop more, miss,” stopped 
the flow of abuse that was ready to issue. 

”I think,” said Bill, ” she were a rank un if she 
warn’t good enough for him.” 

” Andy Brewster’s Aunt Noml,” said Tom Morley, 
” can drink more nor any man at Loddingham. My 
eye, she can swear an’ all !” 

Said Mouldiwarp in his sleek slow burrowing way : 

” There’s a summat agen iv’rybody if we could on’y 
worrum it out. There’s a many crinkum-crankums i’ 
human natur.” 

”Ay,” said Pullen, “there are many devices in a 
man’s heart; nevertheless the counsel of the Lord, that 
shall stand.” 

“ Do you stick up for her?” said Vitie to Lord Beiley. 

He raised his head. He hung his head. What right 
had he of all men to lift his broken spear, to interpose 
his dishonoured shield in her defence? 

“ I think she knew beforehand,” said Vitie. “ She’d 
seen him the morning before; and if he hadn’t told her 
she’d have guessed, or she’s a very bad guesser. Be- 
sides she made such a little to-do about it; she was 
the only one there who didn’t seem a bit surprised.” 


THE CHALLENGE 


327 


There was no answer to it. Pullen and then the men 
uprose. Bill Moffrey and Joe Biddle, who were to help 
top the stack up, led the last waggon-load homeward. 
Tom Morley with Vi'let was set to finish horse-raking 
the stubble, the others went to a neighbouring field and 
stowked the barley. 

The sun had set hnd its light was already less than 
the moon’s when the labourers left the field. Moffrey 
and the lad struck straight across country for Marston, 
the farmer had already gone home; Beiley therefore 
w^alked alone leading Vi ’let. A little way from the road- 
side gate he came upon Joe Biddle standing in the middle 
of the road straddlings, like an inferior unsteady 
colossus, and leaning upon his fork. 

“Here, yo!” he said in a voice loud but thick. 
“ What’s-yer-name I London Tailor ! Flat-belly 1 Mop- 
stale !” 

There was no answer to that choice of epithets. He 
stood directly in Beiley’s way. He had evidently during 
the evening been applying himself freely to his brown 
bottle. 

“ Are yo afeard to answer to yer name?” 

He was, but so that he could put a bold front on it, 
and he answered : 

“ Not to any name of your calling.” 

“ Yo said as I shouldn’t lam the mare when I’d a 
mind.” 

“ I say so still.” 

“I say as I shall.” 

“ I’ve no objection to your saying so.” 

“ An’ I will an’ all. An’ yo an’ all. Who are yo?” 

“ The person temporarily in charge of this mare.” 

“What’s that? Do yer say as I’m a person in a 
temper ? I’ll hammer yer for to larn yer better manners, 
yo thin-gutted sparrer-legged tuppeny noinepin.” 

He threw down his fork and with the lumbering action 
of a battering-ram went at Beiley, who simply stepped 
aside and let him flounder by. Twice he did that. 

“ Do yer want to faight or don’t yer?” 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


328 

‘‘ I leave the choice to you.’* 

“ Damn yer mealy mouth ! Do yer or don’t yer?” 

‘‘Well, I don’t.” 

‘‘ Then I’ll faight yer for not wantin’.” 

His lunge was so violent, his pose so ill-balanced, 
that meeting no resistance he fell all his length across 
the road. Beiley walked on with the mare, leaving him 
to gather himself up. Biddle was soon up and after 
him. 

‘‘ Here, yo !” he cried. ‘‘ Stop ! I want to know if 
we’re faightin’ or haein’ a walkin’-match.” 

Beiley stood and answered : 

‘‘ As you please.” 

‘‘ Put up yer fisses.” 

Beiley put them up. 

‘‘ I say her ladyship’s a brazen-faced trolly.” 

‘‘ I say you lie.” 

Up to that moment his courage had been temperate, 
his eye clear. All at once both failed him. That he of 
all men should champion her ! And that he should do 
it in such a mode, by way of fisticuffs with a beer- 
drenched clown I To what had his folly reduced his act 
and her name ? There was a sudden disturbance in his 
brain, akin at once to the trouble of laughter and of 
despair. He let fall his fists, and jreceived a blow on 
his forehead that stunned him for the moment. By the 
time that he had recovered Biddle had overtaken the 
mare and was laying in to her wdth the shaft of his fork, 
under which she kicked and plunged. But Beiley’s 
anger was superseded by a sense of the man’s danger. 
As he came up three things happened in a succession 
so close that it was apparent simultaneity; Joe struck 
the mare across her hocks, the mare’s heels flew up, 
Beiley at some risk to himself thrust the man violently 
back. Joe fell in a heap, all of a tremble; the narrow- 
ness of his escape was clear to himself ; the mare’s hoof 
had removed his hat. Beiley sprang to her head, led 
her aside and quieted her. In a little while Biddle 
came to him, his hat in his hand, his beery excitement 
quite gone. 


THE CHALLENGE 


3^9 


“ Yo done me a good turn then, mate,** he said. 
‘‘ Wi’out yo I shouldn’t hae no brains unner my hat. 
Will yer come an’ hae a drink?” 

” No, thank you.” 

” Name summat yoursen.” 

“ Never again say a word against a woman that you 
can’t honestly swear to.” 

” I’ll try. I’ve said many a word agen Peggy as 
warn’t exactly gospel, but I’ll try. I doubt it’ll mester 
me; but I’ll try.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


AT A VENTURE 

Beiley awoke next morning before the light had made 
a winning struggle of it with the darkness. He knew 
that he should sleep no more, and so was glad to rise 
and exchange the close air of his ill-ventilated attic for 
the pure breath of the open. He did not however sit 
on the bench by the door, though his feet were so sore 
and his limbs so stiff. He was in such a condition that 
the pain of motion was less than the irksomeness of 
rest. He moved away from the door, and his feet, 
seemingly without the control, hardly with the bare 
connivance of his brain, bore him to the field which he 
had helped to harvest the day before, to that spot under 
the oak which offered a view of Sheraton Towers. He 
pushed through the hedge and advanced to the brow of 
the ridge overlooking the solemn reticent beauty of the 
misty river valley. The light however was as yet insuf- 
ficient to distinguish the regular outline of the building 
from the foliage which environed it. Probably the 
feelings with which he looked were as obscure, as hard 
to separate. He walked down into the valley and soon 
Sheraton was hidden from him. Still he advanced 
across the fields, half a mile or more, until his path was 
crossed by the river. The mist stood back and let him 
see it, but gathered again on the farther bank, a thin 
assemblage of appearances. 

The water seemed as motionless almost as a pond- 
Only in the middle was there a glimmer of life and 
light; its margins were lined with the dim still shadows 
of its vaporous banks. His heated condition of body 

330 


AT A VENTURE 


331 


invited him to undress and plunge in. As soon as the 
cold water hugged him he felt an upbracing of his 
feverish lassitude. He turned his head up-stream, which 
he found to have a strong push though so quiet withal, 
and he swam in that direction until he was tired. Then 
he turned over on his back and with his face to the sky 
allowed himself to drift. Delightful was that cool 
cradling of the water, its soft lapping about his hot 
head and its up-bearing flow between his resting legs. 
He had made his peace with the river. Overhead, miles 
high, just visible through the vapour, a few fleecy clouds, 
snow touched with fire, swam in a rarer fluid far more 
buoyantly than he; he could not say whether the slow 
motion which changed almost imperceptibly their relative 
positions was more his or theirs. And while the sky 
was flushing, palpitating with the anticipation of day, 
down below earth with a more pensive expectancy was 
sloughing her general greyishness and donning the 
colours of her day pageantry. Still he was thinking, 
‘‘ It is not yet morning ’’ ; and while he was so thinking, 
lo ! the sun was blazing down upon him through the 
mist, which was no obstacle to the sudden pomp of its 
reappearance. 

He returned to the homestead in time to take some 
unimportant share in the necessary Sunday work of the 
farm. During which the farmer, who had been favour- 
ably impressed the day before by his knowledge of horse- 
flesh, was provoked by his apparent ignorance of every- 
thing else into saying : 

‘‘It beats me that you, knowing so much, should yet 
know so little. However let’s go in to breakfast and 
try yer there.” 

Vitie came down the front stairs and entered the 
smaller apartment, stone-paved, with painted walls and 
devoid of unnecessary furniture, which went by the 
name of “ the room ” and was the usual living-place of 
the farmer, his wife and daughter. Besides this there 
was a fair-sized reception room on each side of the hall, 
one of which was used for mere storage, the other. 


33 ^ 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


furnished in mahogany and containing Vitie’s piano, 
was the parlour of the establishment. The girl noted 
that the breakfast table was laid as usual for three. She 
passed through into the kitchen, where the table was 
also laid for three. Addie the maid and Tom the boy 
were already seated; Beiley had just finished drying 
his hands with the towel that hung on the door. Vitie 
swam in between him and them. 

“ Good-morning,’’ said she, with the colour of the 
morning on her face. ‘‘You’re to come this way, 
please.” He followed her into the room. ‘‘ You’re 
to sit here, please.” 

The place to which she showed him was the one which 
had been occupied by herself ever since she was old 
enough to sit at table. The farmer was already in his 
oaken arm-chair. Mrs. Pullen came in from the larder 
with a ham on a dish. Her eye expressed disapproval, 
but Vitie was the first to speak, loud and hurriedly : 

‘‘ What is there for breakfast, mother? Oh, I don’t 
want ham again; I’ll poach myself an egg.” 

‘‘ Yer may do as yer like about yer own breakfast,” 
answered her mother, ‘‘ but if yer want to fix everybody 
else’s yer must get up earlier.” 

‘‘ It’s Sunday, mother; I always have my own way 
on Sundays.” 

‘‘ It’s all right,” said the farmer. 

But Beiley dimly perceived something and rose, 
saying : 

‘‘ I beg pardon; it’s immaterial to me where I sit.” 

“Sit,” said Mrs. Pullen. ‘‘Vitie must get herself 
another knife and fork; that’s all.” 

But the new day-man was never again expected to 
place himself at table between Addie and Tom Morley. 

When breakfast had been eaten and the table cleared, 
Tom and Addie came into the room, and all sat round 
the table except Mrs. Pullen, who drew her chair apart. 
Bibles were distributed to each and they read in turn 
verse by verse from the passages selected by the master 
of the house, the fortieth psalm and the fourth chapter 


AT A VENTURE 


333 


of Ephesians. Outside the swallows gathering into 
school twittered on the eaves ; within there was no sound 
but of the one voice which in singular alternation pos- 
sessed the common ear; the uncouth stumbling spelling 
boy’s, the gentleman’s high-bred and colourless, the 
maid-servant’s sing-song, the farmer’s loudly perfervid, 
his daughter’s self-conscious but musically intoned. 
Perhaps to a stranger listening without at the window 
the effect might have been, according to his idiosyn- 
crasy, somewhat droll, intolerably vulgar or altogether 
vapid; probably to those who were within and accus- 
tomed to it the words passed like mere sound ; the effect 
on Beiley was this; what was read by the others hardly 
entered his ears, but what fell to his own share seemed 
every time to have a special pertinence to his own case 
and impressed him as with a private significance. 

After the reading all turned and knelt with their faces 
to the wall while Pullen prayed. He had not the printed 
words before him or in his mind, and yet he prayed 
according to a formula, one begotten out of the common 
needs and aspirations of many generations of men. 
Unconsciously he poured forth his traditional litany, and 
being free from the bond of the letter felt no restraint 
upon his feelings. With the same rude fervour and 
artless spontaneity he declaimed ancient eloquence and 
vulgar modernity, the slang of the street and of the 
pulpit; but the link which united them was a natural 
one, and the person who might have been expected to 
be most sensitive to the incongruity was most struck by 
the sincerity. 

In the afternoon Beiley strolled out again, and again 
towards that specular oak-tree; but the object which he 
chose to keep in view was the desirability of its broad 
shadow as a place of rest that sunny day. He sat under 
it; but I cannot say whether he was more looking or 
resting when he heard the sound of many voices singing 
below in the valley. He rose and walked gently in the 
direction of the sound; possibly in a mere afternoon 
curiosity, possibly because every step that way took 


334 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


him nearer to Sheraton. Before him was the river’s 
lordly path traced in silver on a ground of green. The 
tall chimneys of the populous manufacturing villages 
on the other side were at rest and the sun had his way 
from hill to hill. Soon the singing of many changed to 
the speech of one, a man’s voice apparently in solemn 
invocation. Beiley was still a wide field off when he 
came in sight of a waggon drawn up under the shelter 
of a spreading sycamore. On the waggon were standing 
some half-dozen men bent as in the act of prayer; about 
it were a number of men, women and children, also in 
the attitude of supplication, some on their feet, others 
seated upon forms. Evidently they were unconventional 
folk who had thought it a pleasanter thing to worship 
out of doors in such weather than under the confinement 
of walls. After the prayer the people sang another 
hymn ; Beiley stood in the same place and listened. 
There is a music strangely affecting in a distant human 
voice, and especially in a consonance of human voices, 
whether speaking or singing. The sound passes through 
the discipline of distance as a soul does through that of 
life, and softened of its asperities, purged of its gross- 
nesses, comes to the ear newly harmonized, with a sifted 
rareness and transcendental meanings. Still Beiley drew 
nearer. 

“ A certain man drew a bow at a venture.” 

Until he heard that loud resonant voice and recognized 
it as Pullen’s, he had not been aware that the singing 
had ceased. 

” May-be, friends, it was the only time that day that 
the man drew his bow. Anyhow he slew a king with 
his one shot. We’ve no information that he was a 
particular good shooter with the bow ; from him shoot- 
ing at a venture I’m led to believe otherwise. Or may- 
be he was a thoughtful man, and knew that it’s not the 
intention of the mind that gives the aim to an arrer. 
The bow controls it, the cord drives it, the wynd wafts 
it, the earth pulls it; and above all every arrer has to 
pass between God’s fingers.” 


AT A VENTURE 335 

There came to Bailey’s ears a murmur as of assent 
from the hearers. 

“ If I thought otherwise I wouldn’t stand up here to- 
day, or any day. I’m no shooter either with the bow 
or the mouth. I’m one o’ them marksmen whose only 
chance of hitting is to shut their eyes. But the shut eye, 
friends, is the true attitude of prayer. That’s the mean- 
ing of it; we’ve no aim of our own. Friends, let us 
shut our eyes for a minute.” 

There was silence for a short time, during which 
Beiley’s thoughts wandered from the time and the place. 
Suddenly that trumpet-like voice sounded again, louder, 
clearer than ever : 

” Whose son art thou, thou young man?” 

It struck him as if it had been aimed at him. There 
was more from the same voice, the giving out of chapter 
and verse, comment loud and impressive; but he was 
like a man who has just received a stunning blow, which 
at the same instant gives the shock and takes away the 
sensibility to further shock. He returned to his seat 
under the tree; but the accompaniment to his heavy 
footsteps was neither the one man’s voice in the valley 
below nor yet the many voices, but a woman’s. It 
seemed to come over the hills from the direction of 
Sheraton and to cry with a high-pitched insistence : 

” Whose son art thou, thou young man?” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


ON DIT 

The hard out-door work, the early hours, the common 
food, the strenuous quietude of the farm had even in a 
few days a most salutary effect upon Beiley’s body, mind 
and spirits. He slept more soundly at night, had a 
shred of self-respect restored to him, saw his situation 
with less exaggeration, felt capable of resolving some- 
thing, above all of attempting something, could even 
face his despair with a show of manhood. The chink 
of silver that he had fairly earned had a sound beyond 
the choicest of bought music. At the end of the week 
It was paid into his hand with the compliment that he 
had fairly earned it, and the first use he made of it 
was to discharge his debt to the ferryman. A week later 
he wrote to Fasson making an appointment with him 
at Leicester for the following Monday. 

The meeting was so perfectly business-like that the 
two men’s preliminary constraint was got over in the 
mere act of sitting down together. In half an hour 
Beiley was able to detail his plans, express his orders, 
make all necessary enquiries and arrangements. His 
immediate intention was to remain the winter with 
Pullen, if the farmer did not object; his wider forecast 
had not yet made its choice between wheat-farming in 
Saskatchewan, cattle-ranching in Dakota or horse- 
breeding in New South Wales. His orders included 
certain instructions with regard to Jack the tramp, his 
enquiries did not go so far as Lady Sally; her name 
was not mentioned, her existence even was not hinted 
at. Or only so far as this; when the agent asked 

336 


ON BIT 


337 


whether he was to make a secret of his employer’s where* 
abouts, he received for answer a quick decided “ Yes ” ; 
deliberately qualified by “ Unless somebody asks whom 
you can’t refuse.” Without the direct question he 
gathered that Lord Selstone had respected his secret. 

His business in Leicester comprised a visit to an out- 
fitter ; where he purchased a complete equipment of such 
outside clothing as beseems the condition of someone 
between farmer or cottager and gamekeeper, besides 
underwear of a more delicate quality. He forgot the 
box of cigars for himself, but did not forget to give 
Fasson picture-cards to post to Bertha, together with 
the letter which he had written the evening before while 
the rest of the family were at chapel. 

His reappearance at the Starnel made something of 
a stir, the expression of which ranged from Vitie’s quick 
blush and Tom Morley’s slow gape to the blunt 
” Shouldn’t a knowed yer if ’t’adn’t been for yer ahfters 
an’ aufs ” of Addie the maid, and Mrs. Pullen’s mean- 
ingly uttered ” Yer’ve made a good market of yer 
money at Leicester; I begin to think it ud pay me to 
trade there myself.” 

The same evening he came to an agreement with the 
farmer, who though he had no need of an extra hand 
after that week, was willing for a very moderate con- 
sideration to keep him during the winter as a working 
pupil. Beiley explained that he was thinking of emig- 
rating but before doing so was desirous of learning 
something of practical farming. At his request Pullen 
kept his change of status secret from everybody but Mrs. 
Pullen and made no noticeable alteration in their rela- 
tions. It need but just be mentioned that he journeyed 
to Lindum the day that Jack the tramp’s time was up, 
met him coming out of jail and had some conversation 
with him. Thereafter he continued to lead the life of 
a field-labourer; only he had a bath in his bedroom 
and gave Addie half-a-crown a week for attending to it. 
The expression at least of Mrs. Pullen’s wonderment 
was cut short by her husband. 

22 


338 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ We’ve no more right,” he said, “ to know his name 
than to take his money without his goodwill.” 

Meanwhile Miss Percival had left Hull and taken up 
her abode in London ; which only concerns us because 
towards the end of November she called upon Lady Sally 
at the Earl of Hexgrove’s town house. 

” I expect you’re rather wondering why I’ve asked 
to see you,” she said. 

” I’ve hardly had time,” said Lady Sally. 

” To come to the point at once then, my visit is not 
unconnected with a certain nobleman who is — or rather 
was — not unconnected with yourself.” 

Miss Percival’s eyes and ears were attentive, but Lady 
Sally neither changed countenance nor voice as she 
said : 

” Do you mean Lord Beiley?” 

” It’s just what I do mean.” 

” Then please say what you mean or I shall very 
likely misunderstand you.” 

“ You haven’t begun so at all events. But saying 
what I mean’s as much my style as yours; we shan’t 
quarrel about that. Do you take in the Twopence 
Ha'penny Aristocrat?'' 

” No.” 

” Of course not; you’re in the know without. I, who 
want to get into the know, am obliged to. I’m the 
heiress of a financier who has recently died. He was 
so wrapped up in business he couldn’t give me the 
society advantages that properly belong to a large 
fortune. Now I mean to go in for all I can get.” 

” Excuse me if I don’t see in that any clue to the 
purpose of this visit.” 

” It’s there all the same. I take it for granted you 
want to get even with Lord Beiley.” 

” Since you’ve taken it for granted there’s no more 
to be said.” 

” Well, if you want to kick him he’s in the right 
position for the kick; down flat on his back.” 

Miss Percival put into Lady Sally’s hand a copy of 


ON DIT 


339 


the current number of the periodical she had mentioned, 
open at the page headed “ Under the Rose,’’ and while 
doing so pointed to a paragraph distinguished by a 
threefold pencil mark. 

“ What do you make of that?’’ 

I do not know whether most to admire the benevol- 
ence, courage or omniscience of the modern press, which 
not content with bestowing a general benefit on its sub- 
scribers offers each of them the minutest individual 
attention, and takes a kindly interest in the condition 
of their pseudonymous stomachs, affections, investments, 
gardening, reading, legal difficulties and religious 
doubts. The page which came under Lady Sally^s eye 
was with a fine delicacy reserved for editorial advice to 
correspondents upon their love affairs. Directed by 
Miss Percival’s finger and the treble pencil mark, this 
is what Lady Sally read : 

“ ViTELLA : I am a farmer’s daughter and only eigh- 
teen. A man has lately come to live with us as a 
labourer, who I have grown to quite take a romantic 
interest in. There is something mysterious about him; 
he has such different manners. I am usually considered 
rather pretty, but I should very much like to know what 
he thinks. How could I find out? I am only inter- 
estedy you know. Has a blue bead ring on the little 
finger of the left hand any particular meaning? 

“ Editress : What you write, dear, about your enig- 
matic labourer has deeply interested me. (I must not go 
beyond you, you know, in my expressions.) Is it im- 
possible that Vitella’s bright eyes and rather pretty face 
have something to do with the ‘ something mysterious ’ ? 
I do not see that you can do anything in order to elicit 
from him the expression of opinion which you desire, 
except continue to behave as nicely to him as possible ; 
and that should surely be enough. I hope that very 
soon you will be in a position not only to inform me 
on the best authority ‘what he thinks,’ but also to ex- 
patiate without indelicacy upon what you think. I shall 
be delighted to hear again from you, dear. I am not 


340 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


aware of any symbolism specially attaching to a blue 
bead ring upon any finger whatever. If you have a 
little sister of six, perhaps she could enlighten you. 
Little sisters are sometimes rather convenient.’’ 

“What do you make of that?” said Miss Percival 
again. 

“ Unless you can convince me that you have a special 
interest in asking me and that I have in satisfying you, 
I don’t feel myself called upon to make anything of it.” 

“ I have a personal interest of course or I shouldn’t 
be here. I shouldn’t have the cheek to take a perfectly 
gratuitous interest in your concerns; it would be a jolly 
liberty to do that to anybody above a pauper. But 
what I want you to take in is that your interest in that 
awfully soft stuff you’ve just read — you did read it, 
didn’t you?” — Lady Sally made the slightest of affirm- 
ative gestures — “ is paramount.” 

Miss Percival paused, apparently giving Lady Sally 
time to request an explanation. She had however to 
continue uninvited. 

“ I’ve met Lord Beiley twice since he has been in 
hiding, and each time he wore a blue bead ring on the 
little finger of his left hand.” 

Her attempt at raising a flutter in Lady Sally by 
means of surprise was no more successful than her 
attempt by means of suspense. 

“ His taste in jewellery has changed apparently,” was 
all Lady Sally had to say. 

“ Don’t you think. Lady Sally, it establishes a pretty 
obvious connection between him and the mysterious 
farm-labourer ?” 

“ It does rather seem like it.” 

“ I thought you’d perhaps sooner have the following 
up of the clue in your own hands than in the lawyer’s.” 

Miss Percival made a pause, which Lady Sally 
occupied with a speech of cool thanks. 

“ It w^as good of you to think of that.” 

“ He seemed considerably the w^orse for wear the last 
time I saw him. He’d evidently been having a ghastly 


ON DIT 


341 

time of it; looked quite run to seed and was dressed like 
a cadger.’* 

‘‘ Did he complain at all?” 

”Not he.” 

Miss Percival’s keen eyes and ears were wholly upon 
Lady Sally, but could detect in her no change of skin 
or voice, nor other token that she was troubled by anger 
or regret or even by the excitement of curiosity. She 
waited a minute but was asked no further question. She 
was clever enough to understand that what little ad- 
vantage she had gained she would lose by insistence; 
she rose. Lady Sally expressed a civil gratitude. 

” The information you’ve been kind enough to bring 
me is of considerable importance to Lord Beiley’s 
family.” 

” Including yourself?” 

” Certainly. Thank you.” 

” Then wnen you see me again, and you will see me 
again, you won’t have forgotten me?” 

” I’ve a fairly good memory for faces.” 

” Well, I don’t know that my face takes any more 
remembering than other folks’.” 

“You are forgetting your newspaper.” 

“You prefer to buy one for yourself? All right. 
Good-morning.” 

Lady Sally did buy one for herself, and with it in her 
hand called the same day on the editress; whom she 
found to be a man, middle-aged, rotundly mediocre of 
appearance, a confirmed old bachelor, but with an extra- 
ordinary knowledge of everything that men are sup- 
posed to know nothing about, cosmetics, underwear, 
hair-dressing, mother’s influence, obesity, cutting-out, 
etiquette and babies. He politely but firmly refused 
her request to be told Vitella’s address; it was quite 
out of the question, he said, would be a breach of faith 
with their correspondent, a quite unheard-of proceed- 
ing in the press-world. She offered, every possible 
indemnity but without success. Still she held her 
ground. 


342 A WALKING- GENTLEMAN 

Kindly say upon what terms I may have the inform- 
ation/' 

“You may have it, Lady Sally, upon one condition 
only. The Complete Lady has been beforehand with us 
in a society par; as probably you've heard." 

“ I never heard of the Complete Lady,^' 

He put a press-cutting into her hand and invited her 
to read it. 

“ On dit that Lady Sally Sallis has completely con- 
soled herself for the unfortunate contre-temps of last 
Whitsuntide, and will shortly allow her engagement to 
one of the handsomest and wealthiest young bachelors 
of the English peerage to be announced." 

“ What do you want me to do with this besides read 
it?" she said. “Burn it?" 

“ I want your permission to give it an authoritative 
dementi or else to pooh-pooh it as something that every- 
body knew weeks ago." 

“ And in return for that ?" 

“You shall have the envelope in which Vitella's 
letter came." 

“ How about the breach of faith?" 

“It isn't quite that; it's only an indiscretion, and 
hardly that. You see I've so got into the way of 
humouring our fair clientele by giving fancy names to 
ordinary articles." 

“ So you called it a breach of faith in order to humour 
me ?" 

“ Say rather in order to impress you." 

“ It didn't; I felt humbugged." 

“ And humbug it was. Unless you prefer the expres- 
sion hyperbole?" 

“ I wish, sir, you'd say what you think." 

“ I only wish I could. When I was young. Lady 
Sally, I called oil for the hair hair-oil, like everybody else. 
Would that do now-a-days ? I appeal to you ; as a lady." 

“ What would you call cart-oil?" 

“ I leave that to cart-artists; I'm a man of one talent, 
Unless you prefer to call it one fatuity?" 


ON DIT 


343 


‘‘ I leave the naming to the owner of the quality.” 

” It’s very good of you. My fellow press-men — and 
even press-women — won’t. In return allow me to change 
my mind about that on dit. I don’t call it an on dit 
because I’m at all gone upon the name — are you ? — only 
my fair clients accept it as a quite different article to 
English twaddle.” He took an envelope from a pigeon- 
hole of his desk and put it in her hand. ” Your lady- 
ship shall have it as a gift.” 

” I prefer to have it as a bargain. But don’t you 
think such an interest in my private concerns is a piece 
of gross impertinence on your part and your readers’ ?” 

” On my readers’ part, certainly. Unless you’ll let 
me term it natural curiosity or heaven-implanted what- 
is-it? It’s they who’re interested in you; I’m only 
interested in them and their weekly twopence 
ha’pennies.” 

” You’re very frank.” 

” Am I? I really don’t know; it may be; I leave 
it to you, I always leave it to somebody. You see if 
I’ve butter for sale — or think I have — and you’re willing 
to give me the price of butter, it wouldn’t be fair to 
object to your calling it margarine if you prefer, or 
ambrosia if you prefer.” 

” You seem to have very much of the shopman in 
you.” 

A gleam of pleasure lighted up his dull flabby face. 

” Do you really think so? or only ? It’s my dream, 

that of being a shopman; day-dream, I haven’t time 
for night-dreams ; a shopman with a tiny shop, so small 
that I can reach everything without getting up ; and 
there I sit all day and sell twopence ha’pennyworths 
of anything, always twopence ha’pennyworths, and all 
warranted to be anything you like to call them.” 

” You may say, you’re authoritatively informed that 
Lady Sally Sallis is engaged; not an atom more.” 

” Thank you; that’ll do. I don’t know but that this 
little fissure as an outlet for — which was your selection ? 
culpable curiosity or innocent inquisitiveness? — is a 


344 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


better paying spec than a column of authentic particul- 
ars. I’ve seen ladies sit for half an hour with their 
eyes on two lines of nothing in particular, thinking all 
the while that what was passing through their own minds 
was in print before them.” 

Two days later appeared the weekly issue of the 
Twopence Ha^penny Aristocrat ; wherein was the 
following paragraph in a letter of odds and ends above 
the signature of ” Butterfly ” : 

” Oh, but I had almost forgotten Lady Sally Sallis ! 
Just fancy ! A piece of perfectly conjectural guesswork 
concerning her has been put forth with much sound of 
Sixpenny trumpets by a contemporary, of whose very 
existence Lady Sally was until I called her attention 
to it positively unaware. Affairs however have now just 
so far pi^ogressed that we are permitted to authoritatively 
announce the fact of her engagement. So far and no 
further, as King Canute remarked to an element not 
quite so voracious as your curiosity, my dear. However 
so it must be; for reasons. The romantic details of this 
most interesting event I reserve for a future bonne 
bouche.'* 

Possibly the reading of the above made some change 
in Miss Percival’s projects. Anyhow she had the same 
day an interview with the man-editress of the Two- 
pence Ha* penny Aristocrat ; during which we beg to 
be allowed to keep the ear of imagination aloof from the 
key-hole of disclosure. Out of delicacy no doubt, but 
also, let us confess, out of a want of such curiosity as 
would have overcome that delicacy. 

So we have willed ourselves to be content never to 
know whether Miss Percival was drawn on by like 
scruples to those which prepared Lady Sally to concede 
more than she had been willing to concede; never to 
know by what facility of consent those scruples were 
swept away. All we may know is that Miss Percival 
came away satisfied, and that in the next number of 
the Twopence Ha*penny Aristocrat appeared a lengthy 
notice of Miss Percival’s ancestry, which it appears 


ON DIT 


345 


was respectable, of her fortune, which was indubitably 
more than respectable, but nothing about her aspirations, 
which we conjecture to have been more noteworthy than 
either. Whether it was paid for by Miss Percival as 
an advertisement, or paid for by the editor-editress as 
good copy, or inserted on mutual terms, is one of those 
mysteries which give its odour of semi-sanctity to 
modern journalism. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


FOG AND PHCEBUS 

On the same day at the same hour Lord Beiley was 
striding along to the sheep on Hibbert’s turnips. The 
sun was shining brightly, its rays being softened, not 
subdued by the thickness of the air, which gave a tender 
indistinctness to the not distant trees of Cliff Wood, 
wrapped the river valley in a white mist and in the 
opposite quarter brought the horizon so much nearer, 
that instead of embracing the wolds it did not extend 
its vague outline beyond the hither borders of the 
meadows watered and sometimes over-watered by Fair 
Brook. He bore on his shoulders a large sack of chop, 
a mixture of cut hay and straw, and a bag of oil-cake. 
He spent the next hour and a half in slicing roots and 
apportioning them together with the chop and cake among 
the different racks and troughs. All at once he perceived 
that the sun*s light had been put out with the sudden- 
ness of extinguisher or puff of breath to candle. He 
looked up to ascertain what had so quickly reduced day 
to twilight. A slight breeze was disturbing the hitherto 
still air, on which a massed fog w^as coming up from the 
river like a moving wall, hiding everything before which 
it advanced. 

He had done his work with the sheep; he flung the 
empty sack and bag over his shoulder and walked down 
towards the road. But the fog quickly pushing on was 
there before him. The separation between the trans- 
parent air and the opaque w^as so well marked, that in 
half a dozen strides he passed from day to night. 
Nevertheless he reached the road in safety and began to 


FOG AND PHGEBUS 


347 


descend. When he judged himself to be at the cross- 
roads he saw a face before him, in profile, as it were 
suspended, ghost-like ; for by some vagary of the moving 
fog he saw the face a second before the body or the 
horse whereon the body sat. He stood breathless. The 
fog had given the face something of its own insub- 
stantiality. He caught himself in a doubt whether it 
were real or a projection of his own imagination. But 
the horse was indubitably corporeal, being Phoebus, 
own brother to the more famous Gaslight; which settled 
the doubt on this side of sanity. The rider turned to 
the left and rode away downhill without seeing him. 

He entered the house just after the farmer; Mrs. 
Pullen and Vitie were sitting down to tea. There was 
that on his face which made the farmer exclaim : 

“ Has anything happened yer?” 

“Did yer see anybody?” said Mrs. Pullen directly 
after. 

The lamp-lit materiality of all about him, the furnit- 
ure, the food, the man’s, the women’s faces, and the 
indubitableness of their voices made what passed without 
seem all the more unreal. 

“ I believe I saw — a lady,” he answered hesitatingly. 

He did not notice Vitie’s face, which was turned to- 
wards him with more eagerness than either her father’s 
or mother’s. 

“Believe?” said Mrs. Pullen. “I understand be- 
lieve about what yer think and especially about what 
you’re told; I don’t understand it about what yer see.” 

Said Vitie impulsively, “ She’d a ring with a big ruby 
on the middle finger;” and then she turned away and 
affected to be busy cutting bread and butter, as though 
she wished she had not spoken. 

The mention of the ring raised in Beiley’s mind a 
sudden insurrection of hopes and fears, attended by a 
nameless insubordinate mob of unreasonablenesses which, 
as in all such cases of popular tumult, led rather than 
followed their leaders. 

” Which road did she take?” asked Pullerij 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


348 

“She turned down towards Wrighton,” answered 
Beiley. 

“ Please the Lord she knows the way ! It’ll be pitch 
dark down there. What lady is’t? Where does she 
belong?” 

All three faces were turned to Beiley. 

“ What does it matter?” asked he. 

“It matters greatly,” said Pullen, “whether she 
makes for the river or the hills. I’ve known a man to 
be up to the shou’ders i’ the Trent a night like this 
before ever he knew he’d left the hard road.” 

Beiley walked straight out of doors; but he would 
appear to have given some kind of unvocal imperative 
call to the farmer, who forthwith followed him out. Then 
he leant back bringing himself so near that his whisper 
had the value of a shout. 

“ She’s from Sheraton.” 

“Then she’ll be trying for Amberton bridge; she 
ought to be turned. Wait while I reach my hat. She 
must go back Nottingham w^ay.” 

But even at the moment of going he faced about, put 
his hand on Beiley’s shoulder, and said in his ear with 
a solemnity that was all the more impressive for its 
being so compressed : 

“ Whose son art thou, thou young man ?” 

Beiley made no answer and Pullen waited for none; 
but however speedily the farmer got his hat and re- 
turned, the younger man was already out of sight behind 
the fog-screen. 

Either from the advance of night or the increase of 
the fog Beiley found it darker than before at the cross- 
roads; nevertheless he blundered into the proper road 
for Wrighton. As he descended the dark became so 
gross, so almost palpable, that once or twice he put up 
his hands as if to push it from him. Still he ran on 
in a straight line as he thought. But he must have 
swerved into a by-way, for after he had gone about a 
mile he discovered by a dim dispirited light from a 
cottage window, that he was in the midst of Marston 


FOG AND PHCEBUS 


349 


village instead of half-way to Wrighton. He made 
inquiries at the cottage and its inmates did all they could 
for him, bedanged the fog, advised him to take himself 
home as speedily as possible, bade him turn to the left 
and moreover lent him a horn lantern. But the lantern 
hardly illuminating a dim yard of ground before his 
feet turned the former darkness into a circular wall of 
black ; he must have gone wrong almost at once. Any- 
how the ground began to rise under him, which should 
not have been. He put the candle out, as worse than 
useless, and returned. Soon he heard the footfalls of 
a horse just in front of him; then a large formless 
shadowy anything, as he rather felt than saw, seemed 
to come up out of the ground, rise over him and stand. 

“ Is somebody there said a voice which he knew’, 
from above him. 

“Yes.’’ 

“ Can you tell me where I am?” 

“ I can’t.” 

There was a change in the voice at the next utterance, 
a change proper to the asking of a more personal 
question. 

“Perhaps I ought rather to have said, ‘ Can you tell 
me where you are?’ ” 

“ I can’t.” 

“ Well,” said the voice again, but in a lighter tone, 
“ which of us shall lead and which follow ? For the one 
appears to be just as wise as the other.” 

“ It’s for you to choose.” 

“ Very well; I choose that w’e leave it to Phoebus.” 

“ Which way did you come?” 

“ Through Nottingham. Move on, Phoebus.” 

Beiley stood aside while the horse moved on, upw^ard ; 
then followed, guided mainly by the sound. For some 
minutes they proceeded thus, silently, in the enveloping 
gloom, which however was gradually thinning. Still 
Beiley, though almost within touch of the horse’s 
quarters, saw nothing before him, at least with the bodily 
eye, save a shapeless apparition. His thoughts were too 


350 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


inconsistent, too inextricably involved, too desperate 
and too sanguine for any pen-description. Only this 
one vain aspiration remained constant in the general 
inconstancy : Would he might remain for ever, he and 
she, or that appearance of her, in that circular gloom, 
that common unresolved uncertainty. He dreaded more 
than anything, more than a confirmation of his despair, 
more than the final bludgeoning of his desperate hope, 
that seeing of her face to face which he knew to be at 
hand. 

It came, that expected thing, sooner and otherwise 
than was expected. A sudden inroad of the breeze that 
was ever prowling round the edges of the fog caused 
a temporary displacement, and let in a wan light which 
if it had ever belonged to the sun had been robbed by 
the w^ay of all its life and colour. All at once he was 
aw^are that she was looking at him. Resting her hand 
on the animal’s haunch she was looking back and dowm 
on him fixedly. The thick air gave the effect of some- 
thing seen from afar, and he looked up at her with 
less discomposure than w^ould have been possible if he 
had felt himself to be in her near presence. For twenty 
quick pulsations of his heart he saw^ her thus. Then 
the broken fog pieced itself together again, if anything 
more solidly than ever. But within him if there had 
been tumult before, now there was anarchy, wherein each 
emotion seemed to be fighting not for the mastery but 
to make mastery impossible; so that w^hen Phoebus, 
instinct-led, came where the main road crossed the by- 
way, and turned up by the manor-house wall, Beiley 
stumbled into the ditch. 

Are you all right?” asked the horse’s rider. 

” Yes,” he answered. 

His ” yes ” may have had something of the quality of 
a ”yeth,” for the rejoinder was immediate: 

” How did you lose that tooth ?” 

He could not reply at once, he had to grope for the 
lantern which he had dropped. Leaving him to find 
and follow, which he quickly did, Phoebus strode on 


FOG AND PHCEBUS 


351 


and more briskly, as if with a greater certainty, and 
always uphill. Soon the fog was so much lessened that 
a tree which they passed showed unsubstantially through 
it; as also in an increasing degree a second and third 
tree. So they reached the brow of the hill, where the 
general dusk owed less to the fog than to night and was 
qualified by the rising moon. There the rider again 
stayed her horse. Beiley, who had fallen some dozen 
yards behind, had to make up the interval ; which seemed 
so long not through the lagging of his feet but the 
activity of his mind. As soon as he came up she turned 
and said in the same tone as before : 

“ That tooth — how did you lose it?” 

” It was some ruffians; they assaulted a poor woman.” 

” Where was that?” 

His eyes had escaped from hers. His perceptions took 
in perfectly the unsteadiness of his voice and the even 
balance of hers, the clinging of her dark skirt from the 
knee downwards to the forth-peeping of boot and stirrup, 
the lustre of Phoebus’s tawny coat, and especially the 
gloved hand that held the whip and, if he could have 
believed it, wore his ring; but outside those narrow 
bounds he saw everything through a haze of irrelevancy 
thicker than the fog, which now indeed stood off and 
was passive to the moonshine. Lady Sally repeated 
the question ; he had to draw himself together, compel 
himself to look a little way into the thick irrelevancy. 

” It was somewhere — I believe — not very far from 
here.” 

” What woman was it?” 

” I don’t know. A poor idiot.” 

“Tally? Then I’ve heard about it. Some boys 
threw stones at you?” 

“ Yes. No, that was another time. The next day.” 

“ You must tell me all about it.” 

“ Two or three men took something from her, and of 
course I had to — interfere.” 

“ Why of course? Do you always interfere between 
men and women?” 


352 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


He was silent; not because his way to an answer 
was dark, but because it was so terribly uplighted and 
clear. 

“Anyhow your interference on that occasion was 
successful, I hope?” 

“ I don’t know that. Yes, it was about a basket; we 
kept the basket.” 

“The manilla bag?” 

“ I can’t say.” 

“Of course she recognized you; she never forgets 
anybody. She came to me that evening, and I’ve no 
doubt tried to tell me about it, if I hadn’t been too thick 
to understand her. By the bye do you know what 
Tally means?” 

“No.” 

But he hesitated over the negation, as though a possib- 
ility were even then in the act of presenting itself. 

“ It means just the same as Sally.” 

She gave it a minute to sink in, then asked : 

“ What do you say?” 

“ I did my best anyhow.” 

“ Then the name counts for nothing?” 

She repeated the question and perforce he answered, 
in a low unsteady voice with bowed head. 

“ It’s part of every woman in the world.” 

Her reply seemed to make light of it. 

“ Tally is much indebted to you.” 

When he lifted his eyes the full moon had risen clear 
of the fog and triumphed over it. Permeated by her 
influence what had seemed an earthy obstruction became 
an ethereal transparency. They stood in the midst of 
a dome ; the roof of it was a black terror and the walls 
a white wonder, a fabric whereof the warp was air and 
the woof threads of light. 

At last Phoebus lifted an impatient hoof and pawed 
the ground. 

“Phoebus is quite right,” said Lady Sally; “it is 
high time we were travelling homewards. By the bye 
to-day is the sixteenth, just six months and a half 


FOG AND PHGEBUS 


353 


since the first of June. I should like to know how 
you’ve been spending the interval. Unless you think 
the curiosity unwarranted.” 

” I might be allowed to think it surprising.” 

‘‘ Oh, I’d made up my mind to surprise you for once. 
That’s only a fair tit-for-tat, you know. But this is 
hardly the place or time for a narration of such length 
and interest.” 

” I’m entirely at your disposition.” 

” At your earliest opportunity then. Good-night.” 

She trotted away towards Nottingham ; he followed 
more slowly afoot, until he met Mouldiwarp returning 
from work at Glafford with his dinner-basket full of 
sticks slung over his shoulder. 

” Did you meet a lady on horseback?” he asked. 

”Ay.” 

” What sort of a horse?” 

” Ginger.” 

Mouldiwarp peered at Beiley in his sly sleek way. 

” Yer don’t ax me what sort o’ lady.” 

I do.” 

” Tidyish. I took partic’lar notice on ’er.” 

‘‘Why?” 

“ Becos she looked back at me; twice.” 

‘‘At you?” 

“ Yo not bein’ i’ sight.” 

“ Was she all right for Nottingham?” 

“Ay.” 

The two men returned together. Mouldiwarp, who 
had fallen back at one drop into his habitual taciturnity, 
parted company at the cross-roads, where he took his 
proper way as surely as if he were as indifferent to the 
dark as his namesake the burrower. It must not how- 
ever be supposed that he was missed. Beiley’s mind 
was too busy, not laboriously resolving — he had resolved 
at one stroke, once for all — but imagining issues, seeing 
the unseen and providing for the unforeseeable, en- 
couraging himself with apprehensions, terrifying himself 
with hopes, recalling the scene he had just taken part in, 

23 


354 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


rehearsing the possibilities and even the impossibilities 
of the morrow. For that he must prepare then to see 
Lady Sally again was the only thing that was quite 
clear to him. There was not only the formal invitation, 
he fully recognized that her whole personality had long 
been calling him back, a summons which could no 
longer be refused the due appearance and answer. But 
since he had left her so unceremoniously it was all 
the more incumbent on him to go back in proper 
form, put on the outside of a gentleman however much 
the inward self-assurance might be wanting. It was 
just possible for him to travel to Stoke Clure and return 
within the day; he knew that already. 

But things the most ethereal have their basis upon 
matter, and love’s affairs may be dependent on things 
so gross as turnips and cabbages. As soon as he 
entered the house, Pullen who had gone in but a few 
minutes before him said : 

‘‘ Have yer seen her again?” 

” Yes,” answered he; ” she is right for Nottingham.” 

Then when he was on the point of mentioning his 
desire to leave Marston as early as possible in the 
morning, he was anticipated by Pullen saying : 

” We must all of us founder^ to-morrer and finish 
pieing up them mangolds in the Far Close before the 
weather breaks up.” 

Beiley had a sincere respect and liking for the old 
man, who had behaved towards him with singular kind- 
ness and delicacy, and he would not for his own ends 
make a breach in duty towards him. After all he had 
but to put the day after to-morrow for the morrow in his 
imaginings, hardly more than a difference of sound; 
the rest remained. 


^ Make haste. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


THE FAR-NIGH CLOSE 

Next day Miss Percival drove in a hired brougham 
from Nottingham to the Starnel, and inquired if they 
employed a man there of the name of — she’d forgotten 
what — Jackson was it? or was it — what was it? Mrs. 
Pullen said they had a man on the farm of the name 
of Thompson. Thompson, of course. Could Miss 
Percival see him ? 

“ He’s out at work,” said Mrs. Pullen, ” and I haven’t 
anybody to send just now; the gell’s churning.” 

Vitie stood behind a little way off, just visible in the 
dimmer light of the house, and looked on with much 
of curiosity, something of jealousy, at that self-possessed 
well-dressed young woman. 

” Who is that?” said Miss Percival. ”Your 
daughter perhaps? Couldn’t she go?” 

” She can if she likes, and she can’t if she don’t like.” 

” I won’t go,” said Vitie. 

” Ah, is that Vitella?” said Miss Percival. 

” No, we’ve no such ridiculous name in our family. 
She’s my daughter and her name’s Vi’let; but we call 
her Vitie.” 

Vitie had drawn further back the more to hide the 
red disturbance of her cheeks. 

” Still I’ll call her Vitella, if you don’t mind,” said 
Miss Percival. 

” I do mind,” said Mrs. Pullen. ” I won’t have my 
gell called out of her name.” 

” Very well, but to be consistent you must stop other 
people from calling her ‘ out of her namCi’ ” 

asi 


356 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


“ I didn’t know anybody did. Who does?” 

Miss Percival spoke, but her voice was directed past 
Mrs. Pullen into the house. 

“ I want you to come with me and show me the way; 
if you please — Vitie.” 

The girl perceived the threat that was veiled by the 
thin courtesy; her hesitation was but momentary; she 
took the nearest hat from the row of pegs on the kitchen 
wall and came forward. 

“She shan’t go,” said Mrs. Pullen, “unless she’s 
content to go.” 

“ It’s all right, mother,” said Vitie; “ I’m going.” 

She was down the steps by then. Her mother had no 
time to remark upon the contrast between the hotness 
of her cheeks and the chilliness of the day. She went 
before Miss Percival to the carriage door and entered 
after her. 

“So you are Vitella?” said the money-lender’s 
daughter. 

“I’ve been a great soft,” said the farmer’s. 

“So you have. But that’s nothing to me. How 
long has this Thompson been with you?” 

“ Two or three months.” 

“ Has anybody been to see him lately?” 

“ Not that I know of.” 

“ Not a young lady a little taller than me and rather 
scraggy, as stiff as a poker, with towy hair dressed 
coronet fashion ?” 

“ She called yesterday and asked for a drink of milk.” 

“ Did she see Thompson ?” 

“ He wasn’t at home.” 

“ But she inquired after him?” 

“No.” 

“ What did she say?” 

“She talked about chilblains and Alderneys with 
mother ” 

“ And Twopence Ha^penny Aristocrats with you?” 

“ No, she didn’t; she was as nice as could be.” 

A little further and the girl said : 


THE FAR-NIGH CLOSE 


357 


“You may stop here. He’ll be in the next field.” 

“ Oh, I can’t be tramping over your dirty fields after 
him; you must go and fetch him.” 

“ I don’t know that he’ll come.” 

“ Oh yes, he will.” Miss Percival had stopped the 
carriage. She spoke so that her words should not go 
further than the one pair of ears. “ Tell him Lady 
Sally desires to speak with him.” 

The girl did not hide her astonishment. 

“Are you ? Is he ?” 

“Why not?” 

Vide had stepped out and felt the more freedom; she 
turned and faced her tormentress boldly. 

“ Then I’m not surprised.” 

The offence that Miss Percival took was mere amuse- 
ment. 

“ No, you don’t know enough to be surprised. Be 
sharp, Vitella.” 

Vitie turned away quickly lest she should hear more, 
lest she should show more. As she trod the black frost- 
bitten fallow she faced a keen north-east wind; the sky 
was morosely grey. Lord Beiley was in the second 
field helping to pie the mangolds which lay along the 
headland in a drawn-out heap. Part was yet bare and 
showed the hues of the roots in rich confusion ; orange, 
yellow, greens pale and dusky, hoary browns and crimson ; 
the middle portion was snugly covered with straw, the 
farther end was already coated also with a thick layer 
of earth. There he and the farmer were hard at work 
with their spades. Joe Biddle and Tom Morley were 
carting up more roots, ready cleaned, from the rounded 
piles which dotted the ground. The farmer’s all- 
embracing eyes took Vitie in as soon as she had passed 
the gate. 

“ What brings yer here, lass?” he shouted. 

“ I’ll tell you when I’m nearer.” 

“Speak up; I can’t hear. Has the butter come? 
Did yer say ‘ yes ’ ? Joe tells me heggs are five at Not- 
tingham. What did the miller say?” And so Vitie 


358 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


without haste drew near. “ What cheeks you’ve gotten, 
lass ! ’ ’ 

“I’m rather warm,” said Vitie. 

“Warm, did yer say? Yer might have walked 
straight from a furnace fire. What’s your arrand ? Yer 
haven’t a word for a groat, seemingly.” 

Vitie had indeed no relish for her errand. 

“ I’ve got a message for — for Thompson,” she said. 

“ Well, Thompson’s here, large as life.” 

But Beiley, premonished perhaps by the girl’s moment- 
ary hesitation over his name or other flaw in her manner, 
had already stuck his spade in the ground and left it. 
He allowed Vitie to lead him a few yards apart. Her 
eyes were downcast and voice low. 

“ Lady Sally desires to speak with you.” 

He went forward. Lady Sally had come with so un- 
expected an announcement that his fear was by far the 
greater part of his hope. He walked, Vitie hanging 
back a little, under the high hedge now leafless but for 
the withering purples of the bramble and the living 
green of the ivy; but when he came out into the gate- 
stead he found himself face to face with Miss Percival, 
who had gone so far to meet him. Having been already 
shaken by one surprise he was the less able to resist this 
second. She was dressed with an elaboration which 
under the circumstances was almost an insult, so loudly 
at variance with that bleak rough fallow were her 
Parisian boots of glazed kid, her rustling black silk 
skirts, her befeathered hat; as was the tight-fitting 
mourning glove with the soiled toil-hardened hand to 
which she offered it. In her other hand was a roll of 
paper. Vitie walked off. 

“So sorry to raise such expectations only to disap- 
point them,” said Miss Percival, “ but I knew my name 
wouldn’t fetch you. I couldn’t be sure even that you’d 
remember it.” 

Beiley stood; a brief lifting of the hat was his only 
acknowledgment of her words and presence. 

“ You’re looking decidedly better,” she said. 


THE FAR-NIGH CLOSE 


359 

“ I hope you're well," was the best he could answer. 

She laughed. 

"Oh, there’s never anything the matter with me 
either in health, temper or estate. Well, when are you 
going to drop this awfully silly game of hide-and-seek, 
in which nobody appears to be seeking and you only 
appear to be hiding." 

" I beg your pardon, I haven’t made up my mind to 
take anybody into my confidence." 

" Then you’d better put your mind out to be made 
up, it’s high time, and give your confidence to anybody 
who’ll accept it. You appear to think everything hap- 
pens of itself. The only things that do are those that 
had better not happen at all, railway accidents, im- 
promptu speeches, sudden deaths, love marriages and 
spoilt dresses. Do you know, I always thought you’d 
rather a hankering after going back to Lady Sally." 
He had nothing to say. " I suppose because you knew 
you couldn’t. Anyhow you can’t now. You’ll have 
to hurry up, or you’ll be too late to get a present in and 
receive an invitation to the wedding breakfast." 

She unrolled the paper in her hand. It proved to be 
a copy of that week’s Twopence Ha^penny Aristocrat, 
She found the right page and put it into his unwilling 
hand. His unwilling eye just caught the words " Lady 
Sally Sallis — authoritatively announce — engagement." 
His unwilling will refused to take him further. The 
paper fell from his hand, and in falling separated and 
lay on the ground in two. 

" Everybody has known it for ever so long," she said, 
" though there’s been no authoritative announcement. 
It’s plain enough why she let it appear first in this 
common paper." 

She assumed that she was asked the question though 
his lips were dumb. 

"Just to get your address out of them; yours and 
your Vitella’s. Oh, you may be quite sure it’s correct. 
So there’s an end of the mystery, if there ever was one, 
of her taking your jilting of her sitting down." 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


360 

She picked up one of the papers, but failed to dra^v 
his attention to Vitella's paragraph. The paper fell 
again to the ground. So long as that woman’s eyes 
were upon him he would keep himself from any precise 
measurement of what he had lost. 

“ What are you going to do now?” she asked. 

“ With your permission, return to my digging.” 

” Oh, don’t let me keep you if you’ve anything so 
important as that. Well, if you’ve any message for 
her I shall probably be seeing her shortly.” 

The prick of her taunt only helped him to see the more 
quickly and clearly that no change in his over-night 
decision was permissible. 

“Thank you, I have a message; but I shall take it 
myself.” 

“Well, ‘better late than never,’ they say. You’ll 
at least have a chance of trying if the proverb’s true. 
I reckon it was made before watches were. But even in 
those benighted days one would think they’d feel some 
sort of difference, if only with the skin, between Decem- 
ber and June.” 

“ Quite right; it would be impertinent to attempt now 
what should have been done in June. But December 
has duties of its own.” 

His resolution withstood the shock of her sarcasm 
so easily that it seemed to have gained by it. 

“You appear to have grown a bit since I saw you 
last. But that digging of yours? Though I hope it’s 
not six months overdue. When you come up to town 
don’t forget to call on me. Awfully rough walking, 
isn’t it? Good-morning.” 

She put in his hand her card as well as her glove, 
and then returned across the fallow on the whole satisfied 
with her success, if only because a state of dissatisfac- 
tion was foreign to her character. This much at least 
was plain to her, that Lord Beiley was about to break 
through the inertia in which he had been so long 
involved. 


CHAPTER XL 


UNDER THE ROSE 

Mr. Pullen came in to tea with two numbers of the 
Twopence Ha'penny Aristocrat in his hand. 

‘‘ I found ’em,” he said, “ in the Far-Nigh Cluss. I 
wonder who was the busy sower of ’em. Thank the 
Lord twaddle and gossip and scandal and malice don’t 
seed until yer first take them into your heart ; otherwise 
the scattering abroad of these two parcels of devil’s 
rammel ud be enoo to make the whole parish sny ^ with 
a worse weed than ever was thistle or devil’s-gut. Here, 
Vitie, fire-back ’em.” 

The reminder recalled the shame to the girl’s cheeks. 

” I’ll never buy another copy,” she said impetuously. 

” Surely they aren’t of your buying?” 

“These aren’t, but I have bought them, often. I’ll 
never buy any more though, and I’ll burn all I’ve 
got.” 

“ If it’s the Twopence Ha'penny," said Mrs. Pullen, 
“ it’s not all so bad. Vitie got very good receipts out 
of it for sore throats and iron-mould.” 

“ That bit of good in a bad thing,” said her husband, 
“ is the worst thing in’t; it’s the bait; yer can’t catch 
anything with mere poison. Why do yer withhold your 
hand, lass?” 

For on the very hearth-stone Vitie’s impetuosity had 
been stayed from the promised destruction. She had 
caught sight of Vitella’s query and the editorial answer 
thickly and trebly pencil-marked on the open page of 
one of the papers that she was holding out to the flames. 

^ Swarm. 

361 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


362 

The one she dropped, the other she gathered to her 
again; with it in her hand she crossed the room and 
not heeding her father’s question went out by the yard 
door. 

“ Vm afeared the world’s over much to the lass,” said 
Pullen. 

” Nay,” said his wife, ” I’m sure she’s beginning to 
take a deal of interest in the choir.” 

“May-be; I’m glad on’t; but psalms and hymns 
and spiritual songs aren’t enoo of themselves to save the 
soul of a tomtit, even with that admixture of bonnets, 
giggling and organ which makes up a first-rate choir.” 

Meanwhile Vitie hastily making the round of the yard 
found Lord Beiley in the stable rubbing Vi’let down 
with a wisp of straw. Joe and the boy were milking in 
the neighbouring hovel, whence their disconnected utter- 
ances could now and again be heard or half-heard; which 
made her come nearer than she would have done and 
drop her voice to the confidential level. 

” I want to speak to you,” she said in a tremor of 
excitement. 

He looked up and was struck with the girl’s beauty. 
Either his eyes had been opened, or that dim doorstead 
midway between the outer twilight severely grey and the 
interior dusk added more than it took from her flushed 
face and excited eyes. 

” I want to know, I must know, just how much you’ve 
read of this.” 

She held out the Twopence Ha^penny Aristocrat so 
that he could read its title. 

” Why do you ask?” 

” Because I must. Don’t you know why? Why did 
she bring it here ?” 

“The lady who asked you to announce her under a 
certain name?” 

“Yes.” 

“It is a name to which she has no title. In justice 
to the proper owner you ought to know so much.” 

“ To’d me his own sen,” said Tom Morley. 

The girl still held out the news-sheet. Beiley’s ex- 


UNDER THE ROSE 363 

planation, important as it appeared to him, did not hold 
her attention. 

“ I can't bear myself until I know." 

Beiley felt as we do when the keen air blows upon a 
part of the body which we are wont to keep covered, 
but he pitied the girl's distress, he hesitated over the 
terms of refusal. A tear formed in each of her eyes, 
swelled the lids, glimmered through the lashes, fell in 
one big drop down each hot cheek. You see he could 
not escape ; he was within and she held the doorway. 
Joe Biddle said quite audibly, " Set yer foot, yo slut;" 
and then it was so quiet next door that they could hear 
the milk plopping into the buckets. 

Beiley took the periodical from the girl's hand, and 
with much repugnance turned its leaves from the initial 
On dit, in which gentlemen and ladies flashed their 
titles, their brilliants and their lapses, to the oddments 
about ecclesiastical vestures, furniture polish, fruit salads, 
care of the teeth, neglect of the mind and beetles. She 
trembled and her flushed face paled while he glanced 
over the page headed " Under the Rose " ; but that like 
all the others he passed without sign and finally returned 
the paper to her, saying : 

" It isn't there at all." 

"Sure?" 

" Quite sure." 

Vitie flew back into the house. He turned again to 
his wisping, glad to have been so let off. He let his 
thoughts rest idly upon Tom Morley's words which came 
through the boarded partition : " Weighed two pound 
an' a hafe." But in less than a minute Vitie had returned 
with the other number of the Twopence Ha'penny 
Aristocrat. 

" Is it in this?" she said. 

His repugnance was greater, his pity had cooled. 

" I must ask you please to accept my assurance that 
it was nothing in the remotest degree connected with 
yourself." 

He took up a brush and stooped to the mare's heavy 
fetlock. 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


364 

“ There’s not a deal in’t ayther road,” said Joe Biddle. 

Vitie still held the paper out. 

” I shall never feel certain,” she said, ” never, unless 
I see just what it was.” 

” You appear to doubt my word.” 

” No, no, it isn’t that, it isn’t that at all; it’s — I 
haven’t had time to think what it is.” 

He felt the paper to be pressed upon him though it 
was held forth to so modest an extent ; he took it, reluct- 
antly found the proper page. What he had to admit 
seemed more intolerable in small capitals and long primer 
than in all the hyperbole of imagination. He gave her 
back the paper, saying : 

” After what I’ve said I think you’ve no right to ask 
me.” 

” I know I’ve no right,” she said, and her voice fal- 
tered on the word which should have received the stress. 

” I’ve seed a many on ’em a’ready,” said Tom Morley, 

” Shouldn’t wunner,” said Joe Biddle. 

Vitie did not go quite away, she took a step or two 
backward, then lingered disconsolately by the corner. 
Beiley appeared to be entirely occupied with his brush 
and Vi’let’s flowing tail; but he could see the one half 
of her person, and especially he could see the news-sheet 
that hung so slackly from her hand. Her face, which 
he could not see, all the more appealed to him. He went 
out to her and said : 

” I beg pardon for keeping you waiting.” 

He took the paper and pointed out the passage in 
question. 

” Was that all ?” she asked. 

“Quite all.” 

“ Me an’ two’r three others,” said Joe. 

The abatement of her distress enabled her to see and 
understand more clearly. The letter-press before her 
undimmed eyes began to have a meaning for her, she 
comprehended something of its bearing upon the man 
before her; her selfishness was transformed into sym- 
pathy. 


UNDER THE ROSE 


365 

“ I believe she’s the lady who came here yesterday,” 
she said. ” I believe she came to see you, my lord.” 
The man’s concealment did not entirely conceal. Her 
self-pity had made the breach by which rushed in a 
larger pity. ” I didn’t know her name, but I’ve been 
wishing she’d call again ever since.” 

She burst into tears, and in her tears were dissolved 
the vainer personal elements of that girlish romance. 

“Why are you crying?” said he, perplexed and 
greatly disconcerted. 

“ I don’t know. Because I can’t help. I’m so sorry.” 

“Forme? I’m not worth it. For her? She doesn’t 
need it.” 

“ For both of you, I think. She was so nice. And 
you, my lord ” 

“Thompson, if you please. She doesn’t need it, I 
say ; she’s better off. And what’s better for her is better 
than the best for me.” 

Vide dried her tears but shook her head. 

“ When shall you be going?” 

“To-night if I may.” 

She gave a little gasp. She knew he must go, but it 
was so soon ! 

“ Then I’ll say good-bye, for if I shouldn’t see you 
again.” 

She turned and ran back into the house so hastily 
that his answering good-bye may or may not have 
reached her ear. 

“ Alius tas’es so funny loike,” said Tom Morley. 

When he entered the room the farmer had just sat 
down to his tea, a substantial meal which would also 
serve him for supper. Mrs. Pullen stood over the table 
pouring out his drink. Through the open door Addie 
could be seen frying potatoes at the kitchen fire, with a 
keen ear despite appearances for all that was said. 

“ Is there anything more that I can do?” said Beiley. 

“Yes, come and get yer tea down,” answered the 
farmer. 

“ I’d sooner finish off first.” 


366 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘ Yer may, if yer will, just give the Polly cow her 
bean-mash/' 

‘‘ Pve done that/’ 

‘‘ Then yer may, if yer like, pulp a few turnips for the 
morning.” 

” Pve done that.” 

” Sit down then to yer tea, if yer please.” 

” Things have so happened that I find it necessary 
to leave you sooner than Pd intended.” 

” I saw there was summat. Well, Pm sorry; latterly 
Pve begun to see the shapings of a farmer in yer. When 
were yer thinking of going?” 

” As soon as possible without inconveniencing you.” 

” Oh, for that matter the taters, mangolds and swedes 
are pied up, the fallers are ploughed, the wheat’s sowed, 
the colt’s broken in, the hedging and ditching’s well 
begun; it wouldn’t hurt me if yer was to go this 
moment.” 

” Thank you.” Beiley looked at his Waterbury 
watch. ” If I start at once I can just catch the six-twenty 
at Loddingham.” 

” Man alive!” exclaimed Mrs. Pullen, coming in 
from the kitchen with the smoking potatoes. ” It’s 
enough to take one’s breath.” 

” Nay, nay,” said her husband, ” yer must have bite 
and sup before yer go. Neither worldly nor spiritual 
work ever went the better on an empty stomach; for 
that animal part of us is so craving and masterful 
that it won’t cease teasing and demanding while it’s 
unsatisfied.” 

” I can get something at Leicester.” 

Beiley hastily washed hands and face at the sink, 
and towelled them with the rough jack-towel which 
hung on the door. 

” I don’t know,” said the housewife, ” as I shall be 
content to let yer go hungry away.” 

” If you will be so kind. And really Pm not hungry.” 

” Then you’re worse.” 

He looked again at his watch* 


UNDER THE ROSE 


367 

‘‘ If I had five minutes to spare I would sooner spend 
it in thanking you, Mr. Pullen, Mrs. Pullen, for your 
great kindness to me and forbearance with me.’* 

‘‘Pugh! Pugh! don’t talk on’t,” said the farmer. 
“ I can’t think what Vi’let’ll do without yer.” 

“ We don’t want yer thanks,” said Mrs. Pullen, “ we 
only want yer to act reasonable.” 

‘‘ There’s something owing to you and the laundress,” 
said Beiley. 

Mrs. Pullen glanced at the coins which he laid on 
the table. 

‘‘ It won’t amount to anything like that, anyhow.” 

‘‘ Please put the change on the collection-plate next 
Sunday. Tartar’s hoofs want oiling and stopping.” 

He shook hands with them both. 

Said Mrs. Pullen ; “ You’re not to think but what I’m 
offended.” 

Said the farmer solemnly: “ May you have a pros- 
perous journey by the will of God.” 

‘‘ Thank you, thank you.” 

He was already on the road when Mrs. Pullen went 
to the door and shouted after him : 

“ We’ve clean forgot your things. Where shall we 
send ’em?” 

‘‘ Please give the leggings to Joe, the overcoats to 
Tom and the rest to Mrs. Brewster.” 

‘‘If that don’t cap everything I ever heard!” she 
said to her husband. 

‘‘And he’s gone too without saying good-bye to 
Vitie ! Where is the lass?” 

Mrs. Pullen went to the stair-foot and called up. At 
the second time of calling Vitie answered. 

‘‘Yes, mother?” 

‘‘ What are yer doing up there?’' 

” Nothing particular.” 

Whether it were the constraint of the girl’s voice or 
the unusual excitation of her own mind, a thought came 
to Mrs. Pullen which she had not had before. 

” It’s my belief he has said good-bye to her*” 


368 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


** I shouldn’t wonder,” said the farmer. 

” Then yer mustn’t wonder neither if when she comes 
down her eyes is red with crying.” 

” Yer don’t say so?” 

” But I do say so. She’s always been very partic’lar 
he should have a second-best knife and fork.” 

“Poor little lass! Who’d have thought it? Poor 
little Vitie ! Let’s see, how old is she?” 

“ Going of nineteen.” 

The father stayed his knife and fork while his 
thoughts made a tangle of his hopes and fears, his 
memories and his prophecies of the to-come. 

“ It don’t seem a day hardly since she used to call 
marmilade baa-lamb-lade.” 

“ I wonder whether she knows who he is.” 

“If we think she does it’ll be a main good reason for 
not asking her.” 

Presently Mrs. Pullen went again and called at the 
stair-foot. 

“ Vitie I I won’t have yer stopping up there catching 
yer death of cold no longer.” 

After a little delay she came down ; and though she 
had carefully bathed her eyes they revealed to scrutiny 
the red traces of recent tears. Said the father : 

“ How should yer like to drive with me to Notting- 
ham to-morrow, lass, and walk down the Row and look 
in the bonnet-shop winders?” 

“ I don’t mind if I do, dada,” she answered; and at 
the same moment a purpose w^as born in her brain which 
took something from the lackadaisical droop of her 
shoulders. 

The feeling with which she regarded Beiley had been 
mainly a curiosity, though gilded with the romancing 
of a virgin ignorance. Her tears, so far as they fell for 
herself, w^ere more on account of the humiliation than 
the loss; a humiliation immediately caused by Miss 
Percival’s discovery, but which owned something also to 
the shock of a self-discovery. It had become clear to 
her with distressing suddenness and clearness, that in 


UNDER THE ROSE 


369 

consulting the oracle of the twaddle mart she had acted 
under the promptings of a childish folly; the con- 
sciousness of which was a sign of the woman ripening 
within her. 

Meanwhile Beiley was speeding on his three-mile 
walk to the station with a purpose that had been six 
months in the making. He might have doubted whether 
the announcement of the engagement were veracious 
but for the plausibility of Miss Percivahs explanation; 
though why Lady Sally should want his address he 
could invent no satisfactory reason. He kept congrat- 
ulating himself that he had delayed his departure until 
after Miss Percivahs visit. Thus much at any rate he 
appeared to have gained thereby; that the mockery of 
his delusions was at an end; the torture of hope, the 
agony of desire, which did little more than keep despair 
awake, were at an end. Out of all that whirl of passions 
which had made his brain reel, he was going to the meet- 
ing with but one motive, shame, and but one emotion, 
fear ; a simplification whereby at least his fleshly part had 
gained in repose, his intellectual in consistency and his 
moral in dignity. But while his thoughts went back-r 
wards and forwards his feet moved on ; he reached the 
station in good time and took his seat in the train. 
His feet rested but not his thoughts. The full moon 
was yet low in the east, and through the smoke-trail 
of the heavily-stoked engine its light flashed in and out 
with the effect almost terrible of an incessant lightning, 
almost grotesque of a face playing peep-bo with him ; 
symbol of the dubious aspect of the enterprise which 
he had in hand. 


24 


CHAPTER XLI 


AT LAST 

It was again but a bleak black day, the next, and 
every now and then the forbidding clouds let dribble 
a few pellets of frozen snow; but Vitie dressed herself 
with great niceness and in her best clothes for the drive 
to Nottingham, for which she was sharply reproved by 
her mother. 

“ I should have thought your second-best frock and 
your brown felt ud have been good enough to ride there 
with a sheep and back with a pig, good enough and to 
spare.’’ 

‘‘Let the lass be,” said her father; “I like her to 
look eyeable when she goes to the big town.” 

But Vitie had not dressed either for the sheep or the 
pig, though she did not say so. When her father, who 
drove straight to the cattle-market, parted company with 
her in Arkwright Street, instead of filling the time 
between then and dinner with shopping and sight- 
seeing, she took the tram for Monkton and walked the 
remaining mile and a half to Sheraton Towers. It was 
a bold undertaking for her rustic inexperience, but the 
quicker beating of her heart, which originated in the 
disorder of her nerves, did not end there ; it gave colour 
to her courage and stimulus to her resolution. She did 
not once stop on the way, though her thoughts often 
looked back. The greatest trial from first to last was to 
mount those great stone steps, to stand before the 
baronial portal, to ring, to wait, to maintain the en- 
counter with the liveried serving-man. Everything else 
was easy after that, even to be newly come into Lady 

370 


AT LAST 


371 


I Sally’s presence; for Lady Sally knew her at once, 
shook hands with her, bade her be seated and asked 
if she had had a pleasant drive; the rest came inevit- 
: ably. There was a little slight dark-haired child sitting 
in a window-seat and quietly turning the pages of an 
illustrated fairy-tale book. 

“ I didn’t come for the drive — altogether.” 

The “altogether” was such an involuntary snatch- 
back at delay as one makes who half repents of his 
plunge when in mid-air between safe bank and stream 
1 of unknown depth. 

I “ What can I do for you?” 

But she had already felt the cold water chin-high; 

I now with one irrepressible gasp recovering breath and 
|i courage she struck out. 

“ My lady, I want you not to be angry. I know I 
oughtn’t to interfere.” 

“ No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t do it. Go on.” 

“You know who I mean, my lady. He’s gone 
away.” 

i “ Where has he gone?” 
j “ I don’t know, my lady.” 

' “Why did he go?” 

, “I think I know that, my lady. He’d seen some- 
thing in a paper.” 

! “What paper?” 

I “The Twopence Ha'penny Aristocrat," Vitie’s face 

J flushed at the bare name. “ About you.” 

“You are Vitella?” 

Vitie bit her lip, but the tears of mortification could 
not be kept back. 

“ Don’t cry, dear. If you like him for his good 
qualities, there’s nothing to be ashamed of in that. If 
I’d always done so this would never have happened.” 

The child left her book in the window and came and 
stood before them, her eyes gravely putting the question 
to both speaker and listener. Vitie put away her hand- 
kerchief. 

“ I hope it isn’t true, my lady. Excuse me, my lady.” 


37 ^ 


A WALKING gentleman 


“ It is true.” \ 

” Then Tm sorry for him.” Vitie rose, she felt | 
that her mission was ended. ” And for you too, my '] 
lady.” 

“ But you are given to understand that Pm satisfied.” j 
Vitie was rose-red, but she faced the lady. ^ 

“Pm sure the other one isn’t anything like so nice.” v 
” It is Jack,” said the child as though in answer to 
her own thoughts; and Lady Sally laughed. \ 

Vitie meanwhile had been getting nearer the door. ^ 
” Won’t you stay,” said the lady, ” and take a little ; 
luncheon with Bertha and me?” * 

” Thank you, my lady. I’ve got to be in Wheeler 
Gate at one o’clock to have dinner with dada. If Pm 
late he’ll think Pm lost.” 

” How do you go ?” 

” Walk as far as the trams.” 

” You can’t do it in anything like the time; iPs five 
and twenty to already. Bertha and I must drive you 
there in the dogcart.” 

Vitie would have declined but was not listened to. 
In ten minutes she and Lady Sally with Bertha between 
them were speeding towards Nottingham behind a fast- 
trotting bay, which went with so good a will that the 
whip was a mere ornament to the equipage. They were 
nearly three miles on their way and were rolling along 
between a leafy suburb and a canal, when Lady Sally 
said : 

” Who told him ?” 

”A dressed-up lady who came the day after you 
did.” 

” Plump and dark?” 

” Yes, and with eyes that took everything in.” 

The only appearance of hurry was in the wild flutter 
of Bertha’s hair, which seemed ever afraid of being left 
behind but never was; yet they bowled into Wheeler 
Gate just as the Exchange clock was chiming the preface 
to its monosyllabic announcement of the hour. 

By three o’clock Beiley stood within the doors of 


AT LAST 


373 


Sheraton Towers. Hitherto his thoughts had been 
forcibly concentrated upon the next thing; the phrasing 
of a telegram, the chipping of an egg, the question of 
tea or coffee, the consultation of time-tables, the selec- 
tion of a coat, the trimming of finger-nails, the ordering 
of a cab, the counting of change, the ringing of a bell. 
Now the intermediate was shorn away before him, the 
end of all those preparations was in sight. The men’s 
voices, footman’s or butler’s, sounded uncertainly in his 
ears. He hardly heard a child’s delighted cry from the 
stairs, did not recognize the flushed little face peeping 
through the marble balustrades, was surprised to find 
two of his fingers seized each of them by a little hand, 
Bertha’s. 

“ Have you come to see me?” she said. 

” I wish I had.” 

” Oh, so do I. But p’raps you’ve come to see Sally?” 

” Yes.” 

” Oh well, that’s all the same; for we’re such great 
friends, Sally and Dolly and me, that it is all the same, 
you know.” The little voice dropped to the confid- 
ential. ” I think Sally has been expecting you. She 
didn’t say so, but her face — one’s face does, you know. 
She told me I might come out here with Dolly if I 
liked, and show her the pictures and count how many 
persons went in and out by the big door, but Dolly was 
asleep, the darling, so I came alone. There have been 
eleven persons, reckoning a big one for the earl and 
a little one for the dog. That’s without you; I quite 
forgot to count you. Do you mind?” 

” Not a bit.” 

” But come with me. There are — oh, such a lot of 
doors ! but I know just where she is.” 

How sweet it was to him to feel that gentle drawing 
by two fingers delivering him out of the custody of 
the men-servants, whose respectful impassiveness was 
intolerable to him ! 

They passed in to Lady Sally’s presence. As she 
gave the ordinary greeting there was neither flush nof 


374 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


pallor on her face, neither fluster nor emotion in her 
voice. While Beiley stood the child had been coming 
forward, but looking up saw on his face the picture of 
a tragedy. With intuitive tact she went quietly out ^ 
and shut the door. They were alone together without ; 
one dab of disguise, one rag of concealment. Affright, 1 
shame, ay, even a tempestuous inexplicable rapture I 
intermingled in one agony, physical as well as mental. | 
Lady Sally bade him be seated and said : | 

“ Please begin at the beginning.’’ I 

Bertha came upon Lord and Lady Hexgrove sitting | 
in the south drawing-room together with the Honourable | 
Mrs. Cardus, Lady Hexgrove’s close friend, who was | 
remarkable alike for fleshly weight and lightness of dis- | 
position. Lady Hexgrove was saying for the twentieth i 
time in equivalent words : i 

‘‘ Are you quite sure we are doing right?” i 

” Quite sure,” answered the earl; ” we are doing 
nothing.” 

“Nothing!” exclaimed Mrs. Cardus. “You and I 
carry weight. Do you call coal-heaving nothing?” ; 

“ But,” said Lady Hexgrove, “ haven’t we allowed 
her to expose herself to a very considerable annoyance ?” < 

“ I’m convinced that we’ve allowed nothing but what 
we either ought not to refuse or could not.” 

Said Mrs. Cardus: “Then you don’t know whether 
you don’t because you won’t or won’t because you 
don’t? And you call that a conviction? I’m equally 
convinced that this tooth of mine which waggles both 
to the right and to the left, to the front and to the rear, 
is a firm sound tooth, and anybody who says ‘ Have it 
out ’ is an enemy of ratiocination and of me.” 

“I’m not at all satisfied,” said her ladyship, “that 
we’re doing the proper thing.” 

“There is somebody within the arrangement,” said 
the earl, “ who is even more dissatisfied than yourself.” 

“ I hasten to agree with you there,” said Mrs. Cardus. 

“ I wouldn’t wear that young man’s shoes for the next 
few minutes for a trifle.” 


375 


AT LAST 

‘‘Jack's? Because they'd nip?" said Bertha. 

“ Excruciatingly." 

“ But they aren't shoes, they're very nice shiny 
boots." 

“ When you've corns boots and shoes are one." 

“ One boot or one shoe?" 

“ One agony." 

“ What a funny word !" 

“Yes, dear; and there's a great deal of similar fun 
in life besides what we get out of boots and shoes." 

“My shoes aren't at all funny. But then, you see, 
my nicest shoes are Sunday shoes. They're glac6. 
Why do you pinch my ear?" 

“As a charm, little one, against your shoes ever 
pinching you." 

“ I should like to be perfectly sure," said Lady 
Hexgrove, “ that we are not doing wrong." 

Meanwhile Beiley had begun at the beginning, and 
drawn on by Lady Sally's frequent questions had only 
ended at the end, having omitted nothing of importance 
but that miserable mis-spending of her half-crown. Only 
three or four of her questions need be recorded. She 
asked him what was his chief thought when he awoke 
to being too late for the wedding. 

“That you had had a very fortunate escape," he 
answered. 

“ Perhaps I had. But what of yourself?" 

“ I felt glad," he answered with an enforced candour, 
“ that I could never go back, do what I had done, be 
what I had been." 

“ I hope you still rejoice in that feeling of perfect 
freedom." 

“Only partly." 

She asked him in its proper place why he did not 
leave England immediately after seeing Fasson at 
Leicester. 

“ I knew I must see you first." 

She asked what had become of Jack the tramp. 

“ He has gone away, leaving this message : ‘ I never 


376 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


could abear to walk a mile wivout a bend in it an’ they 
wants me to lead a straight life. Tell ’em, if they’ll 
find the steam-roller an’ carry me there, I’ll lay myself 
down an’ be straightened out proper; an’ a bloomin’ 
sight less fag,’ ” 

Again at the conclusion of his narrative she said : 

‘‘You say that you could see the Towers from a 
certain point on the farm. Had you ever to go that 
way again?” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“Often?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Thank you; it has been even more interesting than 
I expected. I owe you some return. Come and see 
our wedding-presents.” 

Lord Beiley uprose; he had refused the invitation 
once, he could not refuse again. Though somewhat | 
sudden, it was what he apprehended, knew. It was J 
moreover no possible concern of his, except in so far as 
it concerned her happiness — her happiness which he ■} 
was glad to think he could thenceforth neither add to J 
nor take from. Only to hear it from her mouth did | 
for the moment make more than the due volume of | 

sound in his ears, did for the moment cause sensations 
nearer the centre of his being than was either proper or ^ 
reasonable. He knew that and made such haste as he i 
might, she giving him ample time, to express himself 
in opposition to his feelings. j 

“ It wouldn’t be decent of me to offer congratulations 
upon what you’ve gained; but I think I might be 
allowed to do so upon what you’ve missed.” 

“ Thank you. I’ll accept both. Come; I believe you 
know the way.” 

He knew the way, knew the room ; but the glittering, 
the many-coloured objects before him, the silver and 
gold and precious stones, the rare china and iridescent 
glass, the ivory yellow with age, the books both new 
and old, famous or remarkably obscure, the works of 
burin, needle and brush, the oriental silks, shawls an4 




AT LAST 


377 


' carpets, the heaped furs of many countries, the ancestral 
lace, the carven wood fragrant with its own precious- 
j ness, the rarities, the oddities and costly commonnesses, 

I the tokens of affection modestly sufficient, the blatant 
demonstrations of pride and snobbishness, he did not 
know, though he had seen many of them before. As 
under her guidance he made the round of the room 
there was a dimness before his eyes, not of tears, they 
were quite dry, but of the want of tears. He stopped 
at last with a bound into recognition before the insignia 
of a viscountess, his own gift. His start from that 
I numb sufferance into a present suffering, a living agony, 

I drew from her a sudden exclamation : 
j; “ What’s the matter. Jack?” 

!l He was taken altogether unawares, he could not 
i' restrain it — that one sob, a chest-upheaval, dry of tears. 

” Don’t do that again,” she said quickly; ” it sounded 
I horrible.” 

He already had his breath again and half his wits. 
He recognized the gift next to his own, her father’s, a 
silver chalice, priceless Florentine work; and the next, 

I an eye-glass with a gold handle gem-mounted from 
Aunt Adorn ; and the next, a heap of Ruskin all 
morocco and gold; and the next and — and in short 
many others as far as he could see. He found a diffic- 
ulty in retaining the quantum of wits he had recovered. 
He felt Lady Sally’s hand upon his own. The madness 
which comes of mixing wines is nothing to that excited 
by an inrush of wild hopes among settled despairs. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he gasped; “ if you’ll excuse 
me I’ll ” 

He was going, she stood in his way, fronting him. 
The words burst forth which he had so advisedly 
repressed. 

'‘Forgive me, Sally!” 

" I do forgive you. Jack.” 

"I’m under no delusion; I don’t pretend — I know 
that I never could under any circumstances have made 
the slightest amends/’ 


378 


A WALKING GENTLEMAN 


‘‘Yes, you shall keep your beard; it suits you/’ 

She offered her hand ; her eyes were kind. 

“ Lady Sally ” 

“ Lord Jack ” 

He could not separate what her eyes said from what 
her voice. 

“What you say, Sally, is impossible.” 

“Why?” 

He could not bring to utterance what was in his 
thoughts; but it w^ould appear there was a sudden 
enlightening of her ladyship’s mind, telepathic, intuitive, 
casual, w^hat you will. 

“ Oh, perhaps you’re thinking of ‘ one of the richest 
and handsomest bachelors in the peerage ’ ?” 

Beiley hung his head. Lady Sally drew him by the 
arm and turned him right about. 

“ Look up. Jack.” 

He looked up and found himself facing a large pier- 
glass wherein both his own figure and Lady Sally’s 
were reflected full-length. But his hope had all the 
timidity and inexperience of a new-born thing; he 
looked round on her incredulously. She smiled, a hope- 
fostering smile, and said : 

“ The gossip-mongers spoke the truth for once.” 

She put out her left hand which she had hitherto 
kept in reserve, and she saw his eyes fasten on the 
engagement ring which it still bore. 

“Yes,” she said, “and I should miss it, for it’s a 
very pretty ring. Still if you have any other use for 
it ” 

“ But the shame, Sally, the indelible shame!” 

“ We’ll face it together.” 

“ Your father and mother, your friends, the world I” 

“Mayn’t I come in?” 

It was Bertha’s plaintive high-pitched pipe behind 
the door. 

“ Half a minute, dear. You allow me to keep it?” 

He had never in his life felt so disinclined to say no, 
so incapable of saying yes. 


AT LAST 


379 


“ Then I will make you a present of one in return.*’ 
She took his hand in hers and quickly slipped on the 
proper finger the ruby ring which he had given to 
Bertha. There was the swift inexpressible lightning- 
interchange of lovers* looks, the spontaneous mutual 
embrace. 

‘‘You may come in, dear,** cried Lady Sally, and 
the child bounded into the room. “ Behold the world ! 
Now let us go and face my father and mother.** 

“ May I go with you, Jack and Sally?** said Bertha. 
“Certainly, dear,** said Lady Sally for both. 

“ What a fool Pve been !** said Beiley. 

“ I mustn’t contradict you; it wouldn’t be nice.*’ 


THE END 


Richard Clay & Sons, Limited. 

BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND 
BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. 


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